In Dreams
by MsBarrows
Summary: Post Game story - The magic keeping Fenris' lyrium brands from killing him is failing. An offer of help comes from a far-distant source. Rated M for mention of past abuse/non-con.
1. Chapter 1

It was Varric he'd come looking for. But the dwarf was no longer at the Hanged Man, his suite of rooms sitting locked up and empty, and the new bartender – not Corff, who'd died at the hands of an abomination – had thrown him out on the street rather than tolerate an elf in his bar. The only elves allowed there, he was told quite sharply, were the barmaids and whores, and he was neither.

He was staggering along the street, leaning on the wall for support, when a patrol of guards found him. They eyed the big sword he still carried warily, and started to ask who he was, and question where he was going, and point out that the alienage was the _other_ way, and then one of them recognized him. The next thing he knew he was being helped all the way up to Hightown, and brought to Aveline in her office in the keep.

"Maker, Fenris!" she exclaimed, hurrying around the desk as if to hug him, then coming to a sudden stop as she remembered that he'd never liked being touched. She hovered, as he eased himself down into a chair. "What's wrong? Why are you here?"

He shrugged, painfully. "I came to see Varric."

"Varric's gone," she said, and then sat down abruptly on the edge of her desk. "Business trip to Orzammar; he left a month ago. Doesn't expect to be back before spring. Why did you want to see him?"

He smiled, crookedly. "I'm dying. I wanted to make arrangements with him over what was to be done with my body. The dwarves know how to handle lyrium safely."

"_Dying! _But..."

"Lyrium is a poison. It is laced throughout me. Whatever it was that kept it from killing me is failing," he said, and looked up at her, tiredly. "I doubt I have much time left. I only hope I do not go mad from it before the end."

Aveline stared at him, face pale and shocked. And then her mouth firmed, and she rose to her feet. "Right. You'll stay with Donnic and I then. As long as you need to."

"I don't want to impose..."

She slammed her hand down on the desk, hard. Hard enough to hurt, given that she was not wearing her gauntlets. "It is no imposition! You're a friend, Fenris. Besides, you don't have anywhere else to go, do you?"

"No," he admittedly, grudgingly. "Not that I'd have any hope of reaching, anyway."

"Then you'll stay with us," she said, voice softening, and sent a runner to fetch Donnic, who brought him to their home.

* * *

It would almost have been pleasant, staying with them, if not for why he was there. He could feel himself failing; the growing weakness, the increasing pain. He could not keep his balance properly any longer. His sword stood in a corner of the spare room that was his bedroom, where he'd set it down that first night. He liked to look at it, as he lay there in bed, even if he knew he'd never lift it again. A gift from Hawke; one of the last, before she'd gone.

He joined them downstairs at first, for meals, and for drinks and talking afterwards, but it wasn't long until he could no longer negotiate the stairs without help. It was frightening to him, how quickly he was failing. And yet... some part of him looked forward to dying. It would be an ending, at last, to all pain both mental and physical. And the physical was getting steadily worse.

He prayed – as much as he could do anything that might be named prayer – that he would at least remain sane until the end. He had a horror of being helpless, yet found the thought of being physically decrepit far less frightening than the thought of losing what was _himself_. The self he'd built from nothingness, from pain and degradation, hatred and suffering. To lose himself again... to be _nothing _again... that was his greatest fear.

Which is why is terrified him, at first, when he began having strange dreams.

* * *

His dreams had rarely been restful, filled as they were with reminders of his time as Danarius' slave. He had learned, in the long years since his escape, to ignore the things in them that had once been symbols of his fears. The collar, the chains, the whip, the rope, the toys. The gobbets of flesh, spatters of blood and shattered bones that were all that was left of someone used to power a spell of blood magic; the screams that echoed in his ears. The familiar faces that paraded by at times, some of them hated, some of them once cared for greatly.

In recent months, even before his return to Kirkwall, his dreams had acquired a new darkness; nightmarish things that lurked around the edges, felt but only rarely seen. Things that were both frightening to him, and, it seemed, frightened _of_ him. That lurked, watching him, waiting.

He thought it might be the lyrium that lured them in. He could hear it, sometimes, the faint humming buzz of it – louder, in dreams, than it ever was in waking, but that made sense. Dreams took place in the Fade, after all, and lyrium somehow bridged between the real world and there. As did he, when he used his powers to ghost-walk, to reach into otherwise-solid matter.

He wondered at times if it was creatures of the Fade watching him so intently from the shadows. Demons, or spirits, if there was even a difference between the two. Or it could be Magisters, perhaps – he knew that blood mages could influence dreams, and had always worried that Danarius' death had merely marked the end of the magister with the most incentive to come after him. With a king's ransom of lyrium in his flesh, there would doubtless always be others interested him, for his rendered-out value if nothing else.

He grew frightened, sometimes, as the shadows grew larger and darker, the things that watched from within them drawing ever closer, the susurrus of their movements and breathing growing louder even than the hum of his lyrium, there in the Fade. He began to hear whispers, on the edge of being words but never quite audible enough to understand. Unsettling sounds, whatever it was that was being said. Attempts at temptation, perhaps, as demons were said to tempt mages. False promises, designed to prey on his wants and lusts, on pride, on anger. He tried to ignore the whisper of sound, and feared how over time it seemed to be slowly becoming clearer. He dreaded hearing what words were being spoken.

He fought, sometimes, when he had the energy for it; brands flaring bright to drive back the shadows at least temporarily, ghost of a sword in his hands, dancing with a lightness of movement that he could no longer duplicate in the real world. The things watching would leave then; he was never sure why... perhaps it was the light from his lyrium driving them back, or fear of his sword. Or both. What happened to a demon, he sometimes wondered, if a dreamer managed to slay it?

It was when he had collapsed to the ground one night – or at least to what passed for ground, in the shifting reality of dreams – that he first became aware of the _other_ watcher. He lifted his head, shaking sweat-soaked hair back, and saw him. Not hiding in the shadows, but simply standing there before him, watching him with head tilted curiously to one side. Tall and slender, with an androgynous beauty. Large eyes of pale gold, long white-gold hair caught back in a simple ponytail, high cheek-bones. He - and Fenris was somehow certain it was a _he_, no matter how ambiguous its form – was dressed in a simple short tunic of white cloth edged in black and gold, with gilded leather sandals on his feet, the long laces criss-crossing up his slender calves to tie just back of the knee. A uniform, some memory of Fenris' said. One he had seen before.

"I know you," the figure said slowly, as if puzzled, and took a step closer.

"I don't know you," Fenris snapped, raising his sword between them, though he was too exhausted to rise himself.

A strange little smile crooked the figure's lips. Amusement. "I don't think even you can hurt me here," he said, but he remained where he was, not coming any closer. And then, abruptly, sank down to sit cross-legged on the ground, studying Fenris, his lower lip caught between his teeth.

"I know you," the figure repeated. "Though I'm not surprised you don't remember me. We only met once, some years ago. I was younger then."

Fenris felt his eyebrows rise as he studied the youth. Barely into his twenties, at a guess. "You must have been very young, then," he said. And stopped, breath catching as the young man's head tilted again, and he noticed the curve of the ears... not quite a smooth curve. Just the merest suggestion of a point; human enough to pass as one. "That boy..." he whispered. "Feynriel."

"Yes."

"You're a mage. And a magister," he spat out, rising abruptly to his feet, sword pointed directly at the youth.

Who laughed. And smiled, from where he remained sitting on the floor, leaning his weight back on his hands to more easily look up at Fenris, ignoring the threat of the sword. "A mage, yes – a magister, _never_." The word laced with such contempt that Fenris almost believed him.

"They sent you to Tevinter. I trust nothing from there."

"Which is wise of you," Feynriel said. "I trust no one here either. Hawke and Anders were foolish to send me; do you have any idea what the magisters would have done with me, if they'd ever learned of my powers?"

"I can guess," he said warily.

"I was lucky. I looked ahead, during the voyage. Looked into their dreams, saw what evils lurked there. I hid myself; pretended to be just another minor mageling fled to Tevinter for the illusion of a better life."

And now he recognized the uniform; he'd seen it often enough, accompanying Danarius. "You work in the Tower."

"Yes. In the Tower library. I have been very careful to not come to anyone's attention; too weak to be a danger, too stupid to make a useful blood-thrall. Good at keeping the books and scrolls in proper order, but that's about it."

"What are you doing here, in my dream?"

"_They_ came to my attention," Feynriel said, jerking his chin to indicate the now far-distant shadows. "You're attracting demons, you know."

"Is that what they are? I wasn't sure."

"Yes. Your lyrium sings to them, the demons and spirits both. The demons see you as a doorway, a bridge, between the Fade and the waking world. A guarded doorway, but one they have hopes to force."

"What?"

Feynriel frowned. "Your lyrium – you know it connects you to the Fade?"

"Yes."

"When you use it – when it lights up like it is now – it makes a channel between you in the real world, and here. Like a mage does..."

"I am no mage!" Fenris snarled.

Feynriel just gave him a patient look, then continued. "A mage is a living channel between the Fade and the real world. Our powers flow from here to there. You are something like the reverse, like a channel between the real world and here; it is why magic has such a hard time touching you; when your lyrium is alight, the magic flows back here. But it is a guarded channel; _you_ are there, like a door closing it. Or a pinch that makes it loop." He frowned, sitting up, and made a frustrated gesture with his hands. "The language is imprecise. Anyway... demons can reach the real world by possessing a mage, forcing _themselves_ through the conduit. Or they can be summoned, by another demon who is already in the real world, or by a mage."

"And you're saying they hope to use _me_ as such a conduit?" Fenris asked, feeling more than somewhat appalled at the idea.

"Yes. They are waiting for you to be weak enough. And then they will try to overwhelm you, and... force their way through."

Fenris thought about that for a moment, and shuddered. "Would I survive?"

A very long pause, before Feynriel responded. "Something might. It wouldn't be you any more, no more than an abomination is the mage that was possessed."

Fenris sat down, slowly. "I will kill myself before I let that happen," he said flatly, thinking of Aveline and Donnic, of him waking some night as an abomination instead of dying in his sleep.

"I might..." Feynriel began, and broke off. He looked down at his hands, then back up at Fenris again. "I might be able to save you," he said, hesitantly.

Fenris' suspicions roared back to life. "And why would you do any such thing?"

Feynriel met his eyes, and then shrugged. "You saved me."

"_Hawke_ saved you."

"You were there. And I plan to leave here soon anyway – it is becoming too dangerous for me here. And..." he broke off again, flushing.

"And?"

When Feynriel continued, his voice was very quiet. "And yes, I have an ulterior motive. Magisters here still speak of you, of Danarius' pet," he said, and then looked up, meeting Fenris' eyes again. "They fear you; you turned in Danarius' hand. You escaped, and all attempts he made to retrieve you led only to his death. You cannot be touched easily by their magic; even naked and unarmed you can kill them. Your very existence frightens them."

Fenris snorted, his own lips twisting in amusement. "Are you saying they think of me as if I was the monster in their closet?"

A brief grin crossed Feynriel's face. "Yes."

"But you are not scared of me."

"No. But then, I've met you. And was saved by you."

"I had help," Fenris pointed out again. "Both in that and in killing Danarius and his ilk."

Feynriel nodded. "I would still ask you to at least consider it. My help to you is not conditional on it; I will come anyway, if you will allow me to at least try. Shall I come?" he asked, almost wistfully. "Shall I return to Kirkwall?"

Fenris sat in thought for several long minutes. He would, he was determined, kill himself rather than falling prey to demons. Especially while living in the house of friends. But...

But he did not wish to die. Not if there was some chance he could be healed, could be whole again and without pain. Could live.

"Come," he said, quietly.

And woke, alone, his lyrium brands still glowing faintly.


	2. Chapter 2

He might have believed the conversation no more than a dream, except Feynriel began to appear regularly in his dreams after that. Not every night, but at least once every few days, Fenris would find the youth there, watching him. When Feynriel was there, the demons left.

"Why do they fear you?" he asked one night, standing and watching the shadows recede, like a tide going out and out and out and never returning.

"You remember what Marethari said I am?"

"A _somniari,_" Fenris said, after thinking for a moment.

"Yes. A true dreamer. Not only can I walk in dreams, but I can shape them; change them. Demons are part of the Fade; I can shape and change them as well. Kill them; unmake anything they try to create. They fear me much as the Tevinter magisters fear you."

Fenris snorted, then gave Feynriel a suspicious look. "Do you shape _my_ dreams?"

"No. I try to avoid doing that. It makes... ripples. It can attract notice I would rather avoid."

Fenris grunted. He sat down on the beach – the ground having become some sand-like substance, leading to a curve of something that was not quite water. The shape of it reminded him of a bay where he'd once sat watching the surf once, on Seheron, when he'd lived among the Fog Warriors, though it wasn't quite right. The trees backing it were entirely wrong, for one.

Feynriel walked over and sank down to sit near him, sand crunching under his feet.

"When you first came," Fenris said abruptly. "You said it was the demons gathered around me that attracted your attention, How did you know?"

Feynriel smiled. "It wasn't quite so direct as that sounds. You know of wisps?"

Fenris nodded. "The little flying lights mages can summon."

"Yes. They're creatures of the Fade – a spirit, but a very small and weak one. They're very simple little creatures, but they can can communicate, a little; not in words, but in feelings, or pictures. They're curious, playful, inquisitive... they go everywhere in the Fade. They like me, and I can sometimes ask them to do things for me – find a particular dreamer, for example. They sometimes let me know about things that they've seen. They kept bringing me images of this gathering of demons; it bothered them. So I came to see what was causing it."

"And found me."

"Yes. And found you," Feynriel agreed.

"You weren't looking for me?"

"No. Though if I'd thought of it, I would have; there are very few people who would be of any use in protecting me from the magisters, if they ever get on my trail."

"Are they likely to?"

"I don't know," Feynriel admitted, and frowned. "I have been very careful to hide my true powers; but a couple of times I've feared that I may have drawn attention. Not enough for anyone to identify me, but enough for them to at least suspect my existence, maybe. There have been things that might have been traps set for me, that so far I've managed to avoid. But I fear, always, whether I might have missed a trap. Whether someone is already watching me, waiting for me to reveal myself somehow."

Fenris grunted. "And you think you'll be safe here?"

"Safer, anyway. The further from Tevinter, the better."

"True," Fenris agreed.

* * *

The next time Feynriel came, his clothes were different; no longer the fine Tower tunic, but a simple shirt and pants of rough cloth, a rag tried around his head to keep his hair – lank and unwashed – out of his face, much like any freeman might wear.

"I have started the journey to you," Feynriel told him, when questioned. "I draw less attention, dressed this way."

He could track the movements the youth made, after that, merely by looking at his clothes. The rough clothing for a brief while, followed by the canvas leggings, rope belt and bare feet of a sailor. Feynriel's skin burned and cracked and peeled, at first, then tanned and freckled. He looked odd, there in the memory of Fenris' darkened room, scratching his red and peeling nose while sitting in a pool of moonlight streaming through the broken roof, snow dusting down from above.

He took to land again, eventually, somewhere in Antiva Fenris thought, judging by the colourful shirt and light cotton pants he wore, with rope sandals on his feet. His clothes changed from visit to visit for a while; sometimes that of a peasant, usually of a poor or only moderately well-off traveller. Once, for three days in a row, he appeared to Fenris dressed like a wealthy merchant. And then rags for two visits, followed by a return to sailor's garb.

Feynriel did not talk of his travels unless directly asked. But he looked worried, sometimes, and frightened once, and only relaxed a few times. It was dangerous, being a mage and travelling abroad; the templars were always vigilant, and even more so since the destruction of the Kirkwall chantry and the unsettled years that had followed it.

While they did not talk of his travels, they did talk. Of places Feynriel had lived in Tevinter; what he had done there, to earn a living, without exposing himself as a powerful mage. People and events he had seen. Things he had learned; his thoughts.

It was restful talking to him, Fenris found, not least because his presence kept the shadows and demons at bay. And unlike Anders, he had a knack for talking of mage-related things without getting Fenris' back up. Perhaps because he agreed that the magisters were a plague, whereas Anders had only ever seen Tevinter as a society of free mages, and ignored the dark and twisted underbelly.

While his nights were more restful now that Feynriel was so often there, his days were becoming steadily worse. The pain never left him now; it only varied in intensity. He was bedridden, too weak to even sit without aid. Aid which Aveline and Donnic continued to steadfastly provide, bringing him his meals, helping him to the chamberpot, bathing and redressing him. He was past feeling humiliation for needing such help; only grateful, that they loved him enough to care for him so carefully.

He had warned them, in the end, about the risk of him becoming a gateway for demons. He did not say what was the source of his fear; Aveline, he thought, was unlikely to believe information he'd had from a dream. Donnic might; but better if they just believed that he wished excuse to ask for a mercy-stroke if the pain grew too great; if they thought his expressed fear no more than that. He did not tell them of Feynriel, nor of his offer, nor that he was on his way. Not when he was not even sure if Feynriel could reach him in time; it was a very long way to come.

And if it came to it, and he did need to ask for their aid in dying... he wanted there to be no reason for them to hesitate. To put off the necessary thing by even one day, in the false hope of help arriving before it was too late.

He slept lightly now, only briefly dipping into dreams. Even there, he felt the pain of his failing body. He could see the worry in Feynriel's eye each time they met there; the mage knew, even without Fenris telling him.

And then, one morning, in a very short dream – a joyous smile. A glimpse of the passage through the neck, as seen from the deck of a ship riding the morning tide in to Kirkwall harbour.

"I'm here," Feynriel told him.


	3. Chapter 3

"There will be someone coming looking for me today," Fenris told Aveline, as she tucked a napkin in under his chin, preparing him to eat the breakfast she had brought upstairs for him; well-sweetened porridge, rich with cream and spices, and a mug of sweet milky tea.

"Really? Who are you expecting?" she asked, eyebrows rising.

"A friend," he said, annoyed at the faint edge of disbelief in her voice; as if she thought he was making things up, or worse, imagining things. "Human, young – light blond hair. It was long, the last time I saw him. Light gold eyes, tanned skin. He'll most likely look for you at the Keep - he knows how to find your office, anyway."

"And does this friend have a name?" she asked, as she spooned up the first bite of porridge for him.

"Feynriel," he managed to say, before she slipped the food into his mouth.

She paused then, frowning. "Why does that name ring a bell?"

"Someone Hawke helped, years ago. I don't think you were there for that one," he told her, then managed a faint smile. "Too busy being all in a lather over courting Donnic, as I recall. Copper marigolds and all that."

Aveline blushed, then laughed, and fed him a few more spoonfuls of porridge. "All right. So this Feynriel will come to me looking for you. Why did you tell him to look for me? I thought you came here looking for Varric?"

"He knows I'm with you," he answered, avoiding mentioning just how Feynriel knew. Or how he knew Feynriel would be there that day. "Anyway... I need to see him as soon as possible."

The look she gave him then... as if she thought he meant 'before I die'. Which was in part what he meant, he had to admit. But not in the same way she thought he meant it.

"All right," she said softly. "I'll see he's brought here as soon as he shows up. Are you sure he'll be here today?"

"Yes. He came in by ship this morning," he told her.

She frowned at that, looking a little puzzled, but questioned him no further, merely feeding him the rest of his breakfast before going off to ready herself for another day at work.

The day seemed to drag by at a snail's pace after that, as he lay in bed with no company but his own thoughts. How long, he wondered more than once, for Feynriel to make his way from the docks all the way up to Hightown, to reach Viscount's Keep and make his way to Aveline's office. For her to bring him here. He paced out the route in his head multiple times; so long a distance from the docks to Lowtown. Though Lowtown to the steps up to Hightown. Up the seemingly endless steps – whose number he still knew by heart, even after all these years – and through Hightown market, and up further steps, and around corners...

The angle of light through the windows told him the sun was high in the sky, almost noon, when he finally heard the faint sound of the front door opening and closing, and then footsteps approaching up the stairs. He was struggling to push himself upright when the door opened, admitting Aveline, a faintly perplexed expression on her face, and Donnic. And behind them...

He didn't look quite the same as he did in dreams. Less androgynous, for one thing. The hair was dull with dust and salt crystals, caught back in a messy braid, the skin under his eyes darkened with exhaustion. He did not look like he'd eaten well in a long time; he was skinny, the bones of face and wrists and hands pushing up against his skin, the long lean muscles from hard work all clearly delineated, not an ounce of excess flesh anywhere on him. Tanned, yes, with a dusting of freckles on cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He smiled tiredly as his eyes met Fenris'.

"Feynriel," Fenris said, voice thick with relief. "You came."

Feynriel's smile widened. "I told you I would."

* * *

Aveline hovered, eyes watchful and hard with suspicion, as Feynriel examined Fenris. The mage peered deep into Fenris' eyes, peeled back his lip to peer closely at his teeth and gums, then picked up one hand, flexing the fingers gently before lifting Fenris' arm out and to the side, feeling carefully along it. His fingers stroked along the blurred lines of the brands, digging almost painfully into the skin around the joints, and probing carefully into the scant flesh under Fenris' arm. He lowered the arm, then touched Fenris elsewhere, scarcely any more gentle – feeling the sides of his neck, pressing into Fenris' belly in several spots, and then, with a single muttered word of apology, slipping his hand under the nightshirt Fenris wore to probe Fenris' inner thighs, and briefly cup his balls. They both turned about equally red with embarrassment at that. Aveline made a strangled sound, but forbore protesting.

Last of all, Feynriel moved to the foot of the bed, turning up the sheet to reveal Fenris' feet. He examined them carefully, frowning a little as he flexed them, then ran a fingernail hard up the sole of one, smiling briefly as Fenris reflexively twitched away from the pressure.

Fenris bore it all stoically, not liking to be touched but knowing this was all necessary, for the mage to judge his health, and the progress of his deterioration.

Feynriel restored the sheets, and came around to sit back down on the edge of the bed again.

"Well?" Fenris asked.

"It's not too late, if that's what you're asking. There may be some little amount of permanent damage, but most of what's occurred so far can be repaired. I think I know what to do to fix the worst of it, anyway..."

"You _think?_" Aveline interrupted. "You don't _know?_"

Feynriel turned and looked up at her, still calm. "Fenris is unique, and therefor so are his problems. I have read everything there is about lyrium warriors – and precious little remains of the original ancient lore, or of Danarius' more recent notes – and quite a lot about the effects of lyrium poisoning, and what can and cannot be done about it. I know there are some things I can definitely heal; the rest..." He paused, and shrugged. "All I can do is try. It will work, or it will not."

"I will be no worse off, either way," Fenris said. "Aveline... I will die if he does not try. If he tries... I may still die. Or perhaps I will live. I am willing to let him make the attempt."

She frowned down at Feynriel, then turned to look at Donnic. He was leaning against the wall by the door, arms folded across his chest. He straightened up, and shrugged. "Succinct, but you know he's right, Aveline – what other chance does he have? This is not something you nor I can fix," he pointed out, then sighed. "I'm going to the kitchen to make lunch; I'm sure we could all use something to eat." He looked at Feynriel. "If you'll come with me, I'll show you where you can wash and change, if you'd like."

Feynriel smiled tiredly, and rose to his feet. "Thank you," he said, retrieved his travel-worn pack from the floor, and followed Donnic out of the room.

Aveline sat down on the edge of the bed, taking Fenris' hand into hers. "You're sure about this? He's a _mage!_"

Fenris snorted. "Yes. But who else could possibly help me? What is wrong with me is far beyond the skill of any herbalist or bone-setter, Aveline. And... I trust him, I think. At least to do his best to heal me; he wishes my help, and he can hardly have that if I am dead."

Aveline lowered her head, jaw setting. "All right," she said reluctantly. "If you're sure."

"I am sure of very little any more," Fenris said. "That I am dying, yes. That there is nothing else that might save me – most probably. That I have been very lucky in my friends – always," he said, and squeezed her hand.

She cried then, a little, something she almost never did. He stayed silent, simply holding her hand and waiting it out. "All right," she said finally, snuffling mightily and then blotting her eyes dry with a corner of her bandana. "We'll try this, I suppose. I just hope it works!"

"So do I," Fenris told her, and smiled.


	4. Chapter 4

They ate lunch in Fenris' room, all four of them together. Fenris was propped up against a mound of pillows, Aveline and Donnic sitting to either side of him, taking it in turn to feed bites of food to him in between eating their own meals. Feynriel sat cross-legged at the food of the bed, hair unbound and still damp from bathing, dressed in an old shirt of Donnic's that hung to his knees. He'd had to roll up the sleeves; Donnic being easily twice as wide in the shoulders as he was, they'd have hung beyond his hands otherwise. It made him look rather like a child dressed up in his father's clothes.

Feynriel ate quickly but neatly, answering questions from Aveline in between bites. He dealt with her near-interrogation gracefully, clearly not put off by her questions about his past. Aveline was almost hostile at first in her suspicion, but as he answered question after question from her with good humour and in some cases rather blunt honesty, she gradually relaxed.

"All right," she finally said, seeming appeased at last that he had no ulterior motive beyond hoping to hire Fenris as a bodyguard once he was healthy again. "What can you do to heal Fenris? And what can Donnic and I do to help you?"

"Rest and plentiful food, first and foremost," Feynriel said, lifting his near-empty plate from his lap briefly in illustration. "It will take considerable energy for me to perform all the magic that will be required, and the first – and hardest – part may take as long as two or three days of near-continuous casting to accomplish. I will need to be well-rested before I can begin the spell, and then guarded from interruption during it. There's herbs I will need, to help me stay awake and alert for as long as will be needed, and lyrium potions, to keep up my energy. Also someone to give me food and water as I'm able to take it."

"How well-rested? The longer you wait..."

"Yes, the longer I wait, the worse shape Fenris will be in when I begin. At least one or two days of rest is the minimum. Then the long spell, which will restore his brands to the way they're supposed to be, and stop any further damage from occurring. And after I've recovered from _that_, then I can begin healing the damage that has already been done."

"This long spell – what will it involve? What will you be doing?" Fenris asked a little apprehensively.

"The first part of it will be to restore the lyrium that has leeched away from your brands to where it's supposed to be. And then I'll need to renew the magic that keeps it there; that's a spell that needs regular maintenance, by the way. According to his notes Danarius believed it might last years before running down – as it clearly has – but he preferred to renew it at least once a year, or any time you'd suffered an injury that had interrupted the integrity of your brands."

Fenris frowned in thought, then slowly nodded. "Yes. I believe I can remember such times. It hurt, though nowhere near as painfully as when he etched the brands into my flesh. That was bad enough that I woke from it with no memory of who I had been beforehand. This..." he stopped for a moment, hands tightening convulsively on the sheets to either side of him. "I will still be myself, afterwards?" he asked anxiously.

Feynriel smiled understandingly at him. "Yes. I will keep that part of you safe while I work; you will not be truly awake or aware during the casting."

Fenris nodded, relieved.

Aveline, meanwhile, had been frowning in thought of her own. "How can you restore the lyrium to where it should be?" she asked. "It is not like an arrow stuck into him, that you can easily remove; it is all throughout him, like sugar or salt dissolved in water, is it not?"

"Close. A more accurate analogy would be that it is like a very fine powder suspended in water; it has not melted into him, it is tiny particles floating throughout. But I know of something which can move such tiny particles, and put them back where they should be," he said.

"What?" Fenris and Aveline asked at the same time.

Feynriel set his plate down to one side and cupped his hands together, then slowly eased them apart. A speck of green light appeared, spiralling lazily upwards and then began drifting around the room, as if exploring it.

"A wisp?" Fenris asked, amused.

"Yes. It is not a... not a _real_ thing, being so much of the Fade as it is. It can pass through things – doors, walls, people. Most things are no more solid to it than air is to us. Lyrium is an exception, partaking in both the real world and the Fade as it does. To a wisp, you are like a cloud of fog filled with motes of lyrium dust; dust too small for the human eye to see, but quite large to a wisp. And if asked properly – which I am able to do – a wisp would be willing to locate such motes, and move them."

Aveline was frowning now. "And this won't hurt Fenris? Having wisps pass through him? And them moving things around inside of him?"

"No. The wisps do not harm what they pass through. And the way they will move the motes of lyrium will not harm him either; it is like when Fenris uses his powers, the motes will move through the Fade, not through the matter that is there."

Donnic snorted. "Fenris can cause considerable harm to someone, reaching into them with his powers."

Feynriel nodded. "But only if he wills to affect the living matter, to interact with it rather than passing harmlessly through it."

Fenris looked thoughtful. "I think I see. It is like when I use my powers to remove a cork from a bottle – I grasp and move the cork, but the glass does not shatter."

"Yes! Exactly like that," Feynriel agreed. "The wisps will move the motes of lyrium, but the motes will move through you without actually touching you, as the cork moves through the glass of the bottle without touching it."

"Could you not have the wisps remove the lyrium entirely?" Aveline suddenly asked. "All of it?"

Feynriel shook his head as he picked up his plate again. "In theory, yes – in actual practise, no. The total amount of lyrium that has leeched away from Fenris' brands and out into his body is likely of no more volume than a couple of pins. Yet even moving that small an amount will require me to ask aid of many hundreds, even thousands, of wisps, and take days of time. To strip it all out would be the work of many months, more likely years. And that is assuming the wisps would not tire of the task, and would be willing to continue working for that long, which I certainly would be unable to do myself."

He resumed eating. For a few minutes they were all silent. Finally Aveline sighed, and straightened up. "Well... I suppose we'd better sort out where you're to sleep. And start collecting together the herbs and lyrium potions you need."

"He could sleep on a pallet in here," Fenris offered, knowing their house was small, without a second spare room. "I do not mind, and as much time as I spend asleep, I am unlikely to disturb his rest. Nor he mine, as deeply as I tend to sleep now."

"I suppose that would work," Aveline agreed, and rose to her feet, gathering up both her own plate and Fenris' one. "I'll go fetch some bedding."

"I'll take Feynriel to the kitchen for seconds," Donnic said, smiling at him. "And if you'll give me a list of what you need, I'll start gathering things today." Feynriel nodded, and followed him out.

Aveline soon had a pallet of folded blankets and quilts set up to one side of the room. By then Fenris was feeling quite tired, having not napped at all that morning, so she helped him to lie down flat again, and left. He was asleep before Feynriel returned. He woke once, briefly, some time in late afternoon; the mage was stretched out on the pallet, sleeping. With his face smoothed out in sleep, he looked very young, which he was, and very innocent, which Fenris knew he was not. Certainly not after living in Tevinter for any length of time, and especially not with his power to see into dreams. Fenris watched him for a little while, then slept again.


	5. Chapter 5

"My biggest worry is interference," Feynriel explained, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed while Aveline fed Fenris his dinner the next day. "The spell is a rather delicate balancing act; much of it will be taking place within the Fade, and most of my attention will be turned there. Interruption would be dangerous, and once interrupted, I would have to rest for several days again before I could re-attempt the spell, assuming we both survived the initial failure."

Aveline gave Feynriel a sharp look, then pressed her lips together. It didn't need to be said – it was unlikely that Fenris would survive for long enough for Feynriel to make such a second attempt. This would either be done right the first time, or he would die.

"Such sustained spell-casting will also be near-impossible to hide," Feynriel said quietly after a few minutes. "Someone is bound to notice."

Aveline nodded, once. "I'd already figured that part out. I am not without influence among the templars here – favours owed, favours done, on both sides. I'm calling in some markers – to obtain your lyrium potions, among other things – and Donnic has gone to pay a call on someone."

"Who?" Fenris asked, in between bites of bread and cheese.

"Knight-Commander Cullen. He owes me. And he trusts me. Though I doubt his trust will come without strings. Or some expectation of eventual payback. But that is between he and I."

Fenris nodded, slowly, then looked at Feynriel. "He's a good man," he told the mage. "If he promises there will be no interference, than there will be none."

Feynriel grimaced. "A templar?" he said dubiously, then shrugged. "I suppose it's not like I have any choice."

"Very little," Aveline agreed. "Anyway, by tomorrow we should have both the lyrium potions and the herbs you've asked for. Is there anything else you'll need?"

"Just care during the casting of the spell; I will be like someone only half-awake during most of it, only minimally aware of what is going on within the room, and able to do little more than occasionally rouse myself enough to drink or eat. Fenris will seem much the same, though he won't be aware at all. He will require tending, as will I."

"Tending being the provision of food, drink and an occasional chamber-pot?" Aveline asked, raising an eyebrow.

Feynriel blushed. "Yes."

"Right. Donnic and I can take it in turn to stay here and see to caring for the two of you," she said stoically.

They heard the front door open and close just then, and steps on the stairs. "That will be him now," Aveline said, smiling.

"And someone else, too," Fenris said, hearing that it was not one set of footsteps coming up the stairs, but two.

Aveline quickly put aside the plate of food, rising to face the door, while Feynriel tensed.

"I've brought a guest," Donnic called from the hallway, then opened the door and stepped inside. An armoured templar followed him into the room, helmet tucked under one arm.

"Carver!" Fenris exclaimed, and smiled. "I didn't know you were back in Kirkwall. How are you?"

"Hello, Fenris," Carver said, looking Fenris over and frowning slightly before leaning down to clasp forearms briefly with the elf. "I'm well enough. Better than you – you look like something the mabari hacked up."

Fenris snorted. "An apt description. So what are you doing back here, Carver? I thought you'd quit Kirkwall for good."

Carver grinned, and turned one shoulder to the elf, tapping his fingertip against a marking there. "That's Knight-Captain Carver, thank you very much. Cullen asked Greagoir to send me back north once he was satisfied with my level of training; said he needed at least one templar under him who knew his arse from a tea-kettle, and trusted Greagoir not to send me back until I knew at least that much."

Fenris snorted. Aveline bit her lip, looking amused.

"Anyway, Cullen called me in today, and said I was to report here and do whatever Aveline told me to for a few days. See that no one came poking their noses in where they weren't wanted, or went tripping over a mage who's not officially here," he said, and turned to look at Feynriel. They looked at each other with roughly equal amount of curiosity and suspicion.

"Carver – this is Feynriel. Feynriel, this is Hawke's baby brother. Still a bit wet behind the ears, but he only trips over his own feet about the half the time," Fenris said, smirking more than a little.

"_Hey!_ Only one time in ten, now," Carver protested to Fenris, grinning, then turned back to Feynriel again. "I remember that name. The half-elf mageling that Marian sent off to hiding in Tevinter, yes?"

"Yes," Feynriel agreed. "She saved my life."

Carver nodded. "She was good at that. At least when she wasn't busy messing them up. Or ending them. Anyway," he said, turning to Aveline. "Donnic told me the short version on the way over here. I'll be whatever help I can be, as well as being guard-dog against any possible templar nosiness."

Aveline nodded. "Good. It will be easier with three of us to help out. Have you eaten yet?"

"No, not yet."

Donnic spoke up. "I'll go grab food for the two of us from the kitchen. You can start on the long version while I'm gone."

Aveline resumed her seat on the edge of the bed. Carver glanced around, then seeing there was no where else to sit, leaned back against the wall.

"Have you been to see Hawke at all since you came back north?" Fenris asked.

Carver's face hardened. "Yes. Once, just after I got back."

"How is she?"

Carver shrugged. "The same. She'll never change," he said, and looked away for a moment, clearly not wanting to discuss his sister any further. "So tell me about this healing," Carver said after a brief period of uncomfortable silence. "And what I'll need to do or not do during it."

* * *

They all gathered in Fenris' room early the next day. Feynriel was well-rested, freshly-bathed and dressed in soft, comfortable clothing; not a robe – "I don't _do_ robes," he'd said – and had just finished a sizable breakfast. Donnic had carried up a padded chair from the sitting room downstairs, and placed it near the bed, and was now busily padding it with additional cushions. Carver had positioned a small table beside the chair, then gone downstairs to fetch a pitcher of fresh water from the pump in the kitchen, and Feynriel was arranging the supplies he'd need on the table. Aveline, meanwhile, laid kindling ready in the small fireplace at the far end of the room, where they could keep a kettle ready to brew up the pre-measured packets of herbal decoction that Feynriel had assembled the evening before, and keep a pottage warm.

They worked in near-silence; they'd discussed what needed to be done the night before, and everyone knew their assigned tasks. Feynriel walked around the room to make sure everything was arranged to his satisfaction, then settled down in the chair, wiggling around a little to be sure he was comfortable. Aveline remained where she was near the fireplace – she would be taking the first watch within the room – while Donnic and Carver stood quietly near the door. Feynriel had said the beginning of the spell would be moderately impressive, and all three of them wanted to watch. Fenris would only be able to see the beginning of it, he'd said, and after that would be safely asleep, though asleep wasn't quite the right word. Unaware, mainly – his body quiescent, but his mind kept safely apart from it, Feynriel had promised, so that he would be unaware of any discomfort the spells might cause.

He was a little uneasy about that; about being unknowing while things were done to him with magic. But he was even more frightened of being awake during it, frightened that such powerful spells might cause him to forget himself again. And he had to trust that Feynriel, wanting his help, would do his best to keep him whole in mind while restoring health to his body. And trust, too, that his friends would not allow the mage to do any obvious harm to him if such proved to be his intent. Though that he believed to be a very remote likelihood; he judged the mage truthful in all he had said about his intentions.

Feynriel glanced a final time around the room, then smiled reassuringly at Fenris. "I am ready to begin," he said. "Are you ready?"

"Go ahead," Fenris said, voice wavering just slightly.

Feynriel closed his eyes. For a long moment all was silent and still, nothing happening. Then he raised his hands, clasping them together palm-to-palm in front of his chest. He muttered briefly, relaxing back further in the chair, then slowly rotated his hands outwards, palms facing towards Fenris, tips of thumbs and first fingers touched together to form a circle. The air within the circle of his hands flexed, distorting and warping. Carver sucked air through his teeth audibly. Fenris stiffened, wary; it was an opening in the veil itself that Feynriel was making, and while he had told them it would be a temporary and short-lived thing, it was dangerous.

A spark of green light flickered into view, then another. There was a pause, then a third appeared, a fourth, then they began to pop into view faster than could be counted. They swarmed out of the distortion, streaming out into the room, boiling around Feynriel in a shimmering cloud. He hummed, briefly, and the swarm became less chaotic, swirling in a more orderly fashion around him. Wisps began to settle on him, one by one, peppering his clothes, his hair, his skin, with spots of verdant light. It was eerie, frightening... beautiful. Fenris realized he was holding his breath in awe, and slowly began breathing again.

The room was silent now, save for an occasional crackling sound from the distorted space, the sounds of their breathing, and the faintest of hums from the massed wisps.

Feynriel was entirely coated in wisps before he slowly closed his hands again, the distorted area shrinking, subsiding, then disappearing. His hands dropped lightly to his lap. He took a few deep breaths, then one hand rose, pointing at Fenris. The wisps suddenly took flight again, bursting away from him and arrowing through the air toward Fenris in a glowing green mass.

It was the last thing he saw before darkness claimed him.


	6. Chapter 6

It was like a dream, but not a dream, merely a long slow floating time. He could not see, could not smell, could not touch or taste; he felt like something small and blind and helpless, like a newborn kitten. But there was an odd sense of safety too, as if he was held carefully cupped in some giant hand, warm and supportive, protected from whatever it was that surrounded him. Feynriel's powers, holding him safe in the Fade, perhaps.

There was a sound. A vibration felt in his bones as much as heard, a deep unending hum, wavering a little in pitch. He had a strange feeling of familiarity; as if it was a sound he'd often heard before, though he could not place it. There was also a high hissing sound, like rain falling, or the crackle of static electricity when he combed his hair on a particularly dry day, but going on and on without stopping. He listened to both sounds for what felt like a very long time – though there was no way of judging how much time was actually passing – and eventually noticed that the hiss was gradually fading, the deep hum slowly becoming a purer tone.

His lyrium, perhaps? He'd heard Anders or Justice once say something about the singing sound his lyrium made in the Fade. And the hum did seem familiar. As good a guess as any, he supposed. In which case perhaps the static-y sound was the lyrium that wasn't where it should be.

After a time there was a sense of movement that was not movement, as if he was being put down. The sense of being held safely faded. He felt a moment of fear, as if he was being abandoned here, in this strange formless place where he was helpless. And then he heard another sound, hidden before under the all-enveloping deep hum, but becoming audible now, as if it moved closer to him. A sound like singing; like a mass of voices in chorus, singing not in words but instead each voice a single tone, a note held for far longer than any living throat and lungs might manage. It was no earthly music; it followed no human or elven patterns of scale or chording. Just sound, beautiful as birdsong, as randomly repetitive as a speaking stream or the sighing of wind through trees. It was light and playful at some times; at others, it swelled and crashed like a thunderstorm, loud and boisterous. Mostly it wandered at some point between the two extremes. Whatever made the song stayed with him, until the feeling of being picked up and held returned, and then moved away again. But he could pick it out now, beneath the loudness of the deep hum and the high hiss.

Time passed. The hiss slowly weakened; the deep hum smoothed out further. Several times he felt the not-actual-movement sensation of being put down, and each time the song returned to him; protecting him while, he assumed, Feynriel's attention was turned elsewhere. And he needed protection, he was sure, having now heard yet another sound, a sound beyond the hum, beyond the hiss and the singing. A faint sound, and one he did recognize, with dread – the sound the demons had made in his dreams, before Feynriel came and drove them back. A sound only there when the protective power was not; when only the singing was there to guard him. The whispers that were almost words, dark and disturbing and alluring at the same time.

He ignored the voices, as best he could, listened only to the singing. He became aware, eventually, that the music was thinning; as if individual voices were gradually fading away, one by one, going out of his range of hearing. The music grew simpler, less complex. Less protective; the voices grew louder, intruding on his awareness again.

There was a time when just a few voices remained, still holding their notes. It made him feel lonely and sad; like seeing a friend leave.

He found himself wishing he could sing.

Yet even if he'd known how to, he had no mouth nor tongue to shape sounds here; no lungs to draw and hold breath. Nothing to _breathe_, for that matter.

A memory came to him; of visiting the Chantry, when there was some special celebration going on. There'd been singing; not just the daily chant, or the massed chorus of chantry inhabitants that came together for special occasions; for this, everyone in the chantry had sung, chorus and worshippers both, all raising their voices together. He'd stood in the shadows at the back, watching Sebastian sing, listening to everyone else sing too – not all of them well, but the few sour notes were mostly lost in the mass of voices – and wished he'd known how to join in. Wished he'd understood what caused the beatific expression on his friend's face as Sebastian sang, one voice among many lifted in praise.

They'd talked, afterwards. Sebastian had asked if he'd liked the singing; he said yes. He'd asked if he'd sung, himself; he said no.

"But why not? All voices are welcome," Sebastian had asked him, surprised.

Fenris had shrugged, uncomfortable, and wishing a little that he _had_ tried to sing. "I don't know how," he said shortly, regretting his sharp tone even as the words left his mouth.

And Sebastian had not been offended; he'd just smiled, amused. "You could always hum along," he said, and touched Fenris lightly on the arm, then dropped the subject.

Fenris felt amusement, now – he _was_ humming. Or at least, his lyrium was, if that was indeed what the unending deep sound was. So much purer a tone, now, the hiss almost entirely gone.

The feeling of being held and protected was back, but what remained of the song had not left him this time. The last of the hiss faded away. Individual voices wandered off, until there was just one remaining, a single high pure note, unwavering, still singing its part of the song in the endless silence.

He woke.

* * *

The first thing he saw was green light. A wisp, hovering just a few inches above his face. It circled lazily up, rising toward the ceiling, then vanished back to the Fade.

Feynriel was there, sitting slumped on the edge of the bed, looking exhausted, his eyes reddened with lack of sleep yet glittering with unnatural energy. The mage managed a thin smile. "How do you feel?" Feynriel asked.

He felt weak, as if any movement at all would be a huge effort. His mouth was dry and tasted foul. He ached, a little. He managed a faint smile in return. "There is no pain," he managed to say, voice gravelly from lack of use, then had to stop and cough, clearing his throat of a thick wad of phlegm. Spots danced before his eyes at even that little effort.

"He will be very weak at first," Feynriel said, turning his head to talk to someone – Aveline and Donnic, Fenris saw as he blinked his eyes clear. "But he will recover his strength quickly, now that the lyrium has been dealt with. I must rest now. In a few days when we've both recovered some strength, I can do more."

The mage rose to his feet and tottered, almost falling. Carver stepped forward from somewhere to steady him and help him away. Fenris closed his eyes for a moment, feeling dizzy. A hand slid beneath and lifted his head; a clay mug was held to his lips. He sipped, expecting no more than water, and sputtered a little when it turned out to be lukewarm broth instead, a little on the salty side. It tasted like ambrosia; he drank greedily, until it was taken away again.

He lay there, feeling very tired, which seemed odd considering he'd just been asleep for... "How long?" he asked.

"Two and a half days," Aveline answered.

They kept him awake for a while longer; Carver and Donnic lifted him out of the bed, and Aveline quickly changed it, after which she left the room, taking the dirty sheets away with her. Carver held him balanced upright while Donnic stripped him down, and washed him as best he could with a basin of warm soapy water and a cloth; he needed it, Fenris' nose told him in no uncertain terms. Then into a clean night shirt, and back into bed. More broth, then, until between one sip and the next he fell asleep. Real sleep, this time.

He dreamed only of voices singing, and nothing disturbing.


	7. Chapter 7

They were both invalids for the first few days afterwards; Fenris still weak, though as predicted regaining strength quickly, and Feynriel spending much of his time asleep, only rousing long enough to eat, drink, and eliminate before collapsing back to sleep again.

By the third day Fenris was able to sit on his own; he celebrated by, with Donnic's help, taking a real bath in a tub for the first time since shortly after his return to Kirkwall. They returned to the bedroom afterwards – Fenris walking very slowly, supported by Donnic, but actually walking again – to find Feynriel awake, sitting leaning up against the wall. He smiled when the two of them came in.

"You're looking much better," he said approvingly, voice raspy with disuse, and rubbed a hand over his chin, which was showing an uneven stubble of fine hairs. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better," Fenris said, as Donnic carefully helped him back into bed. "I feel stronger already, and the pain is gone."

Feynriel smiled. "Good. There's still work to do – fixing what can be corrected of the damage the lyrium caused – and after that you'll be even better. But first, I could use a bath myself. And a proper meal. By tomorrow, maybe, we might both be recovered enough for me to begin." Fenris nodded. Feynriel rose to his feet, only a little unsteadily, and after gathering together clean clothes to change into, left the room to find the bathing chamber and make use of it himself.

Fenris was tired from the effort it had taken to bathe and walk, but too awake to be able to nap. After Donnic and Feynriel had left he lay there, thinking further about his experience during the healing. The singing still haunted him, reappearing each night in dreams. Yet it was a haunting he welcomed; such dreams were invariably peaceful, restful, totally lacking in the dark imagery that had twisted most of his dreams into nightmares for as far back as he could remember.

It had begun to haunt his waking thoughts as well, as it did even now, recalled bits of the music drifting soundlessly through his head. He sighed and relaxed back against the pillows, closing his eyes and just enjoying the memory. Strange, that the music should be so compelling, when it lacked anything that could really be called a tune, or melody... yet it was. Once heard, he could not forget it. It stayed with him.

He remembered his desire to sing along, when he'd been held in the Fade. Smiled, remembering too the words of Sebastian's he'd remembered – 'you could always hum along'. Which he hadn't been able to do in the Fade, lacking real lips or lungs to make the sound, but could do here. So he did, humming quietly to himself, a tuneless drift of sound mimicking as best he could the remembered song.

It seemed somehow easier to remember the sounds, the music in his head clearer to him, though still just as random, when he did so. It was a soothing sound, his hum merging with the song, sometimes managing to follow it, sometimes drifting apart for a while. He drifted for a while on the edge of sleep, humming when he was awake enough to do so. Dreamed, briefly, of even humming along in his dreams, the deep clear thrum of his lyrium underlying the hum of the lips he didn't really have there.

"_Maker_... how did you do that!?" a voice exclaimed, startlingly near and loud in the silent room.

Fenris jerked fully awake again, opening his eyes to see Feynriel standing just inside the door, hair still wet from bathing, the drips soaking into the shoulders of the clean clothes he'd changed into. His mouth was gaping almost comically open as he stared at Fenris. No... not at Fenris – at something near him.

He turned his head, to see a wisp hovering just above his right shoulder, lazily spiralling up and down just a hand's-breadth from his ear. And yet somehow he didn't feel particularly surprised to see it there... he had time to realize that the sound the wisp made as it hovered nearby was like a faint version of one of the voices that made the music in the Fade, and then it vanished.

"I don't know," he whispered, awestruck.


	8. Chapter 8

"I am no mage!" Fenris snapped out angrily.

"I'm not saying you are," Feynriel said patiently. "What I said was that I've never heard of anyone who wasn't a mage being able to summon a wisp."

"And you're sure he summoned it?" Aveline asked. "That it wasn't one you'd summoned yourself? Perhaps one leftover from when you summoned so many for the healing?"

Feynriel shook his head. "No... they can't remain in our world for that long. Only a few hours, and then they need to return to the Fade. Whatever it is that sustains them is not to be found here; they must return, or they turn to ash. And I have summoned no wisps recently," he added, then turned back to Fenris. "Tell me whatever you can remember of what happened, of what you were doing while I was gone."

Fenris frowned, then sighed and rubbed his eyes. "All right. There was a song I heard in the Fade, while you were healing me..."

"You mean you were aware during the healing?" Feynriel interrupted, looking startled. "You were supposed to be in a dreamless sleep," he said, frowning.

"It was dreamless," Fenris agreed. "But it was not quite sleep." He then had to explain about what the healing had been like from his perspective; the feeling of being held, and put down at intervals. The deep hum and the static-y sound that faded, the tuneless singing that came and went, the sense of the song keeping darker things at bay.

Feynriel nodded slowly when he was done. "You were far more aware than I'd have expected," he said. "I know spells often work strangely on you, when they work at all, because of the lyrium in you. The spell meant to keep you safely unconscious while I worked on you didn't put you as far under as I'd thought it would, obviously. And yes, lyrium makes a sound in the Fade; the tone it makes there varies according to the amount and purity of it. Your guess about the deep hum being your lyrium is right; that is what it sounds like to me, anyway. Few humans or elves can pick up the sound of it, or the sounds the wisps make either; much of it is beyond the usual range of our hearing, either too high or too low."

He paused a moment, shifting uncomfortably before resuming. "I can hear the wisps quite clearly; I've sometimes wondered if that's connected at all to my being a somniari, or is simply random chance. Or whether it's actually the other way around; that I'm a somniari _because_ I can hear them so well. When I wish to influence the Fade, to control it... they come then, swarms of them, and are part of what makes the changes. I'm not entirely certain I _could_ change the Fade without their help; I've never tried to exclude them from my workings. Anyway, my ability to hear them is why I can manage to summon so many of them at once; most mages can't summon more than four or five at a time, and rarely bother with more than one."

"But you summoned hundreds," Aveline said quietly.

"Thousands, actually – remember what I said about them only being able to remain here for a few hours at most. As they returned to the Fade I called more here, though that wasn't as obvious as the initial summoning; only a few at a time were needed, once the initial swarm had been called. But we're getting sidetracked," he pointed out, and turned back to Fenris again.

"You were right about being held and put down; to keep your mind safe from any possible harm while I worked on fixing your lyrium, I took the part of you that is _you_, and held it in the Fade. You were still connected to your body, but separated from it physically; you could not feel what was being done, so there could be no pain or discomfort or fear. Demons keep their distance from me, as you've already seen, and I was there in the Fade as well while working on your healing, so they stayed away. But I needed to wake enough at intervals to care for myself, and rouse your body enough for it to be cared for; whenever I did that, I left wisps guarding you in the Fade, to keep the demons at bay."

"And I heard their song," Fenris said, quietly.

"Yes. And you heard their song," Feynriel agreed.

"I wanted to sing along with it, after a while," Fenris explained quietly. "But I couldn't. And ever since the healing, they have been in my dreams – the wisps, singing. Even awake, I sometimes hear the song, or at least remember hearing it. And I tried humming along with it," he said, then paused, caught in memory. "It felt... soothing. Very peaceful."

Feynriel nodded. "You looked like you were asleep when I came in. And then I saw the wisp... I still don't understand it. Mages can summon them because of our connection to the Fade."

"But you said I am connected to the Fade too, by my lyrium, which exists both here and there," Fenris pointed out.

"Yes, but it's not the right kind of connection. It... blight it, there aren't words to explain what it looks like to me, from the Fade side. It's..." he stopped, looking frustrated.

"You told me when you first found me that mages are a channel, and I am like a channel that is closed, somehow blocked or pinched off..."

"Yes. It is like... it is like the dwarf plumbing. A mage is like a faucet..." That made Aveline and Donnic both laugh, and Fenris smile. Feynriel grinned, then continued. "Like a faucet that can open itself, to let water – power – flow through it from the Fade to here."

"Am I a drainpipe, then?" Fenris asked, amused.

Feynriel's grin widened. "No. You are blocked, like a plugged drain, but the plug is not something that can be removed; power cannot flow through you as water flows through a pipe; yet somehow when power is directed at you, much of it passes through you to the Fade, which is why magic has such a hard time touching you at all. But it can only flow one way; there is no actual channel opening. It passes _through_ you, but not by opening you."

"Perhaps its like a sand filter, then," Donnic spoke up. "Not an open channel, nor a solid plug, but still filled – the power, like water, can drain down through the sand and charcoal and gravel in it, pulled by gravity, but there is no way for the liquid to return back up through it."

"Filters can leak if there's back pressure," Aveline pointed out. "Though I can't imagine what would cause power to build up a like pressure."

Feynriel and Fenris exchanged a look. The analogy held surprisingly well; the demons had hoped to force out the blockage, to turn Fenris from filter to channel. To apply back pressure, washing him away.

"Perhaps it is like heat," Donnic suggested. "If heat were power. Hot air rising up a chimney heats the bricks and stones it's built of, and the chimney grows hot to the touch, as a mage grows full of power when channelling the Fade energy. And Fenris is a blocked chimney; the heat cannot rise easily through him. But heat one end of something and the heat eventually warms it through, like holding one end of an iron bar in the fire until the bit you're holding starts to scorch your hand... and if lyrium were ice, then it would take a lot of heat to even begin warming him..."

"Not a particularly good analogy either," Aveline pointed out.

"Perhaps not. But no analogy will be precise for this," Feynriel said. "Though now I do wonder..." he trailed off.

"What?" Fenris asked.

"I wonder if it does have something to do with your lyrium. Creatures of the Fade can hear the sound lyrium makes; be attracted to it, even. I've often seen wisps congregating near lyrium in the Fade. One of the reasons they were willing to be so helpful with your lyrium was because they like it. And me," he added, smiling briefly. "They may like you too, now, or at least your lyrium, now that they're aware of it. And if you were, as you say, trying to imitate their song, and especially if you were trying to do it while dreaming... I don't know. You've told me that so much of what you can do with the powers you have, you don't know how you do it – you just _do_ it. Perhaps, when you were trying to still hum while dreaming... the lyrium somehow responded to your want. And the wisps heard it, and were drawn to you by their curiosity; they are very simple creatures, but curiosity is certainly one of the emotions they do feel."

"And one came through, somehow?"

"Yes. And one came through, somehow. It would still be easier to believe if you were a mage, since then you'd be the right kind of channel."

"Are you absolutely sure you're not a mage?" Aveline interrupted. "Your sister was one."

Fenris flushed, and looked away. "I am no mage," he said again, in a low, angry voice.

"Wait... your sister was a mage?" Feynriel asked, startled. "Then maybe you are..."

"No," Fenris said, flatly, then sighed. "I suppose there is some small chance of it. But if I was a mage, I would have been made a thrall, not a bodyguard. And apart from summoning a single wisp, I have never manifested any mage-like powers."

"A thrall?" Donnic asked.

"Blood thrall," Aveline said grimly.

"All Magisters are human. Elven mages and lesser human mages are prized as blood thralls, who can supply their master with even greater power when bled than any purely mundane slave," Feynriel explained grimly. "I was lucky to avoid becoming one such myself. It was only because I entered Tevinter as a free elf and not part of a slaver's coffle that I didn't end up on the auction block right off. I was very careful once I was there, to avoid attracting notice or breaking even the smallest of laws, which would have given them the excuse they needed to enslave me. I hid my powers; a weak mage is not as attractive a target as a stronger one; why pursue a single weak mage when stronger ones may be easily bought in the market. And I made myself useful, the one worker in the library who could always lay his hand on just the right book or scroll. As long as my utility there was perceived as being greater than my use as a thrall, I was relatively safe."

"Not safe at all, in other words," Aveline said.

"No, not safe at all. Just the illusion of safety. Which I knew; which is why I left. And why I wish to hire on Fenris as my bodyguard, once he is recovered; I fear someone may have realized I was hiding my powers, before I left. That I was much stronger than I seemed."

"Would someone really pursue you this far, just to make you a blood thrall?" Donnic asked.

"If they suspected how unique my powers are – yes," Feynriel said, flatly. "A blood mage can, with great expenditure of blood and a great deal of hard work, influence dreams and thereby influence the mind of the dreamer. I can sculpt dreams as easily as you might sculpt clay or soft wax. To a magister, I would seem a tool or weapon beyond compare, well worth spending considerable resources on acquiring."

A brief silence fell. Finally Fenris cleared his throat. "All of this aside... how much longer until I am better? If you are right and someone did guess about your true powers, then the longer we remain here in one spot, the more likely they are to relocate you, and then attempt to capture you."

Feynriel nodded, sitting up straighter. "I must still do some work on you, to heal what damage has been caused by the lyrium. And it will also take you some time to recover your strength and stamina, as well. You should be on your feet again within a few days, but able to travel, and fight if needed... two, perhaps three weeks, I would guess. Perhaps less."

Fenris smiled crookedly. "We will aim for less," he said.

Feynriel smiled back at him. "We can try. Perhaps after we've both napped and eaten I can make a start on my side of things."

"That sounds like my cue to go start dinner," Aveline said, rising to her feet. "Donnic, I need you to go do some marketing... we're low on a few things."

"All right," he agreed amiably, and followed her out of the room.

Feynriel rose from where he'd been sitting at the foot of the bed, and headed over to his pallet. "I'll be curious to see if you can call a wisp again, if you're willing to try," he said. "I'm pretty sure that you're correct in saying that you aren't a mage – there's nothing about you in the Fade that feels like one. Which makes me very curious as to exactly how you managed it."

Fenris shrugged, before wiggling down more comfortably into bed. "I have no objections to trying. Though not right now."

"No, no right now," Feynriel agreed.


	9. Chapter 9

Fenris broke off humming, scowling in annoyance. "This still isn't working," he said.

Feynriel sighed. "No, it clearly isn't. Perhaps it was a one-time thing. Or perhaps it only works when you're half-asleep."

"Possibly," Fenris said guardedly. "But that is not something we can test right now," he pointed out firmly, it only being mid-afternoon and he having slept a good portion of the day away already. Feynriel had done some further healing on him this morning, correcting some of the damage that his lyrium had done to his body. Most of it, the mage had explained, was on a scale too small to even see or feel, but it could become far more severe problems in time if left untreated.

"All right," Feynriel agreed. "Perhaps we can try again tomorrow. I'm going to go and see if Donnic needs a hand with anything," he added, and rose and left the room.

Fenris sighed in relief. The attempts at wisp summoning over the last few days hadn't really bothered him at first; he was almost as interested as Feynriel was in the question of whether or not he could do it again. But as time had passed without any result, he'd felt increasingly tense and annoyed by their trials. It had reached the point where he couldn't even remember the song of the wisps any more, his head instead filling with memories of other sounds when he tried, not all of them pleasant. Which had only increased his irritation with the exercise.

He sighed again, feeling a little of his tension draining away now that they were done for the day. He slumped a little, then looked around the room, wondering what to do with himself now. Perhaps take the wooden practise sword Carver had brought him downstairs, and go practise in the tiny walled backyard for a while... but no, he wasn't in the mood for physical activity at the moment either, still feeling vaguely out-of-sorts from the healing that morning.

His eye fell on his sword, still gathering dust in the corner, and he smiled. He wasn't up to using it again yet, but he _would_ be. He should clean and sharpen it.

It took him several minutes to find his pouch of whetstone, oil and rags. He set them out on the broad windowsill, then walked over and lifted his sword, grunting with the effort it took. Though at least he _could_ lift it again. He was smiling as he settled down on the window ledge, the wide heavy blade balanced against his thigh.

It was soothing to work on the blade. It didn't really _need_ a sharpening, having been pretty much entirely unused since the last time he'd sharpened it, before his arrival in Kirkwall, yet he enjoyed the process of it. Oiling the whetstone, then drawing it carefully along the edge of the blade, both held at just the right angle – the blade being too large to do it the other way around, used for smaller blades, of pulling the blade over the stone. Carefully wiping the faint slurry of oil and metal particles off of it when he was done, running an oily rag along both sides of it, then buffing it dry with a clean one, until it was mirror-bright. The warm sun on his back relaxed his further, the familiar activity, the scent of the oil...

He wasn't even aware when he began to hum along with the music in his head again, it having returned unnoticed at some point while he worked. Only that, when he was finished, he didn't feel like rising and putting everything away right away, and instead relaxed back against the window frame, head tilted back and eyes closed as he enjoyed the feeling of the sunlight on his face, the heat of it soaking through his clothing and warming his flesh, at least until a passing cloud blocked it.

Somehow, he was unsurprised to open his eyes and find a wisp hovering nearby. He kept up the faint tuneless humming, examining it closely; the greenish glow reminded him of the light from a firefly, yet there was no actual body as such, just a roughly spherical globule of _something_. Its composition made him think of fire more than anything else, hundreds of fine thread-like flames radiating from a common point; fire that was brilliant white at its centre, and faded to green as its substance grew further from its middle.

Curiously he lifted a hand toward it, stopping short of touching it. There was no sensation of heat, or cold, or anything really, just the slightest tingle in his lyrium, so faint he wasn't sure if it was something he was really feeling, or only imagining.

The wisp moved closer to him, tracing a slow spiralling course through the air that centred around his upright hand. He held his breath for a moment, his hum breaking off. It bobbled in mid-air when his humming stopped, then drifted closer toward his face, in a way he could only think of as _questioning_. He could hear, faintly, the sound of the wisp in the otherwise silent room. He pursed his lips a moment, then hummed again, trying to match the note it was making. It bobbled again, then made a single much more rapid circle of his hand, after which it stopped and hovered just beyond his fingertips.

The door opened, and Feynriel stepped in, then stopped, freezing as he saw the wisp. He stared for a long moment, and then a sudden grin lit his face. "You did it!" he said happily, then cocked his head a little to one side. "Can you feel it at all? Mages can often get impressions from them – like emotions, or sometimes pictures of what they've seen, when the wisp is in the mood to co-operate."

Fenris shook his head slightly, not wanting to break off his humming, and gave Feynriel an enquiring look before turning his attention back to the wisp. The mage walked over, then sat down on the edge of the bed, his eyes glued to the wisp, a faint smile on his lips now. "It's... pleased. And curious. They're almost always curious about something – if there isn't something specific I want a wisp to do when I summon one, it usually just wanders around exploring. I think it's mostly curious about _you_ right now. Wait; I'll see if it will communicate with me," he said, and went very still, his eyes going unfocused, and then half-closed. He was silent for several seconds. "I think it likes your lyrium," he said softly after a while. "The song of it."

Fenris frowned, but kept up his humming. The lyrium. Of course; it always came back to the blighted lyrium.

"It heard you singing. It came to sing with you, I think; it's hard to tell what they mean, sometimes," he said apologetically, then sighed, and sat up again, opening his eyes and moving his attention from the wisp to Fenris. "I'm wondering what it would think of your lyrium if you, err... lit up."

Fenris raised his eyebrows then, seeing reason not to experiment, concentrated a moment. A blue glow sprang up around his hand.

The response was immediate, and startling; the wisp pulsed brightly, then swirled rapidly around his hand in a tightening spiral that left streaks on his sight from the brightness of its glow. And plunged into his glow, vanishing. He broke off his hum, sucking in air in startlement. "I didn't just kill it, did I?" he asked, startled and upset.

"No, don't worry – it just went back into the Fade," Feynriel hastily reassured him. "It _liked_ that, your lyrium being active. That reaction... have you ever seen someone whoop aloud, and run toward something? It felt like that."

"Oh," Fenris said, softly. He was relieved that he hadn't destroyed or hurt the wisp. And yet disappointed, somehow, that it had gone away again. "Do you... do you think it will come back again?"

Feynriel grinned. "I'd think so. It's interested in you now, for whatever reason, and I think it'll come back whenever conditions are right. What were you doing, that got it to come back?"

Fenris shrugged, leaning back in the window embrasure again. "Nothing, really. I'd sharpened and polished my sword," he gestured at where it was leaning against the sill beside him, "and was relaxing, enjoying the sunlight mostly."

"And humming?"

"Yes, and humming."

"Huh. So it seems to be tied to both the humming, and being relaxed; you'd have been very relaxed when you were half-asleep the other day," Feynriel said thoughtfully, and smiled crookedly at Fenris. "And weren't whenever we were trying to deliberately summon one."

No," Fenris agreed, feeling his own lips crook into an answering smile. "I most certainly wasn't relaxed then." He frowned, looking at Feynriel questioningly. "I still don't understand _why_ though. I am no mage."

Feynriel nodded. "I don't know. I would guess that it has something to do with the healing; they became aware of you then, I think. As someone with a presence in this world, and not just as whatever way your lyrium manifests to them in the Fade."

"As a person, and not a thing, you mean?" Fenris asked, frowning.

"Yes. Lyrium exists in both places, but most of it is just... stuff. Things. Ore, crystals, lyrium dust, potions, runes inlaid in weapons, and so on. Apart from when someone ingests a potion, lyrium is not usually associated with anything living at all. And a potion contains only a very tiny amount of very impure lyrium. The amount of pure lyrium in you would take hundreds of potions to accumulate. Thousands. Apart from golems, you are the only living being I can think of with such a strong non-magical link to the Fade. And golems are not precisely living, anyway."

"What are they then?" Fenris asked, puzzled.

"A ghost, is likely the closest term for them; a spirit trapped in and haunting the shell that they were killed within. Perhaps wisps might be interested in them, as well, if they had any connection to the Fade – but they are created from dwarves, and dwarves are no part of the Fade."

Fenris stared at Feynriel for a moment, surprised. "Golems are dead dwarfs?"

"Yes. Placed alive in a stone or metal shell, which is then filled with molten lyrium, and worked on further in some way, though the knowledge of the entire process has been lost. The dwarf dies, of course, but their spirit remains trapped in the creation, empowers it – gives it a mockery of life. A controlled life, servant to whomever holds the control rod for the golem."

"Another form of slavery, then," Fenris said darkly. "Or thralldom. Another obscenity."

"Yes," Feynriel agreed softly. "Anyway... you are the only truly living being I know of with such a concentration of the metal within you, part of you. And now the wisps have become aware of you as well; they are curious about you, I'd assume. Especially since you're now singing along with them sometimes," he added with an amused smile, then looked curiously at Fenris again. "Does it bother you, having this mage-like ability? Many people would find the idea of being able to summon a spirit from the Fade – even as weak and harmless a one as a wisp – to be frightening."

Fenris frowned in thought for a while. "No," he finally said. "My only experience of them has been very peaceful; I cannot imagine fearing them. Now, if this gave me the ability to summon demons, or the stronger spirits – _that_ I would fear. It doesn't, does it?" He felt uneasy at the very idea.

Feynriel frowned. "I don't believe it does. Though I can think of no way to test it that would be safe for either of us."

Fenris shivered, feeling cold despite the sunshine that was shining on him again. "I would not wish to," he said firmly, then straightened up. "I should go practise for a while, or it will be that much longer before I can use my sword properly again." He rose, and carried the blade back to its corner.

"May I come watch?" Feynriel asked.

"As long as you stay out of the way," Fenris agreed, then led the way out.


	10. Chapter 10

It actually did bother him, a bit, this ability to summon wisps. It was uncanny, and he had little trust for anything having to do with mages. And yet, he found himself falling into the habit of humming along with the wisp-song in his head whenever he was relaxed. His words to Feynriel had been no lie; there was something about it – the song, or the humming along with it – that he found very peaceful in some not entirely explainable way. Alluringly so; _not_ humming along with the song whenever he was relaxed enough to remember it would have been far more difficult.

And the wisps came, when he hummed.

Never more than one at a time, but he was certain it was not always the same one. The wisp's note varied, for one thing, as did its behaviour. He quickly became certain that there were five of them that came and went; he gave them names in his head, mostly based on their observed behaviour.

There was Hover, which he was reasonably certain was the one that had first come through; it liked to perch in mid-air somewhere near him, sometimes showing some greater degree of interest in him but mostly just there, bobbing a little up and down, and prone to leaving if he stopped humming even briefly.

Tracer was the first one that he'd realized was a different wisp – its note was far higher than Hover's, on the edge of audibility, and it liked to trace the paths of his lyrium lines, floating along an inch or so above his skin, swooping along the curves of them even when such were hidden under his clothes. Clearly clothes did not impede its awareness of where the lyrium was. It would often stay for some period of time even after he'd stopped humming, seeming entranced by his lyrium, before finally returning to where it belonged.

Diver grew excited whenever his lyrium was lit up, and liked to fly through him at such times, passing as easily through his flesh as his own hand could reach into another when phased, though thankfully without any of the attendant damage that he himself caused on such occasions. Usually Diver came back out the other side, though sometimes it vanished back to Fade instead. When his lyrium was not active, it would flit around whatever room he was in, moving from point to point seemingly at random, spiralling up and down in place briefly before suddenly flitting off to a different location. He guessed that it was Diver that had been the second wisp to visit him.

Then there was Hider, the shy one, who had the lowest note of the five and was noticeably smaller in size. So-named because it was most often to be found lurking under the fall of his hair, tucked in behind one of the projections of his armour, perched in back of his ear, or some similar close-by and relatively inconspicuous location.

And last was Singer, who had three different notes it made in random succession. It was prone to the longest visits, little caring whether or not he carried on humming once it had come through. It was the most curious of the wisps, and would often bumble around his vicinity for some time, exploring the surfaces of the walls, the drapes, any items that might be left out. He had once watched it spend an entire hour slowly exploring every petal, leaf and thorn of a rose in a vase in the sitting room before it had finally vanished back to the Fade. Just that single rose, ignoring every other plant in the mixed bouquet of blooms.

Feynriel had no idea why those five wisps seemed to be particularly interested in Fenris, though he did say, after checking in dreams one night, that he had seen all five of them lingering near the structure that was Fenris' lyrium in the Fade. "Wisps gather near lyrium; I know I mentioned that to you previously," he said. "These five seem to have settled on lurking near yours. I suppose that makes them the most likely to hear and respond to your hums. Though it might equally well be the other way around; that they lurk near your lyrium because they have previously responded to you, and are interested in it because they know it is a part of you."

Whatever the reason, Fenris grew used to their presence, and even found himself welcoming their wordless company, especially when he was involved in particularly boring tasks, such as reconditioning his leathers, or working through the sets of exercises that were putting him back in proper fighting condition.

His recovery went swiftly; it wasn't long before he and Feynriel were able to begin discussing where to go once they left Kirkwall, and know that they spoke of an event that would happen within days, not weeks.

"If you have no real destination... there is one place I would like to go, before heading further afield," Fenris said hesitantly one evening.

"And where would that be?"

"Starkhaven. Which is, I know, closer to Tevinter than here... but surely that in itself might help to throw off anyone who is seeking you. They are more likely to believe you have taken ship from Kirkwall than that you will head north over the mountains."

Feynriel snorted, then smiled crookedly. "By that logic I should head west to Nevarra, which is even closer to Tevinter. But why Starkhaven?"

"There are people there I would wish to see. I had considered going there, when I fell ill, to make my farewells; Kirkwall was as far as I could manage. While it is no longer for the same reason that I wish to go, still... I would go there first, if I could."

Feynriel nodded. "As good a destination as any to start, I suppose – I have no objection."

Fenris smiled. "Thank you. I would suggest we make it look as if we did book passage by ship; make enquiries down at the docks, perhaps, about departures to various points, and what the cost would be, and so on. And then leave very quietly for the north."

"That sounds acceptable," Feynriel agreed.


	11. Chapter 11

It took almost two weeks to make the trip to Starkhaven, Fenris and Feynriel walking north over a pass through the Vimmark Mountains and into Wildervale, their few belongings and whatever supplies they weren't carrying themselves loaded on a mule that they took turns leading. There they turned to the northeast, travelling mostly east at first so that once they struck north they would avoid the more populated areas along the strong of lakes and small rivers that led north to the Minanter. Neither of them had much desire to travel through the more civilized areas, where they would be at risk of Feynriel being identified as an apostate, or might encounter a slaver looking to abduct travellers from the more heavily travelled routes for the ever-hungry markets of Tevinter.

Better the back-roads and narrow forest trails, where encounters with others were rare, both parties usually equally suspicious of each other and doing their best to avoid encounter. Fenris was clearly well-used to this mode of travel, and even more importantly, had apparently travelled this particular route several times before. He not only knew of a number of good places to stop and camp for the night along the way, but places where they might safely buy supplies, and a handful of places it was best to stay well away from. They made surprisingly good progress with few problems, as a result.

Feynriel could not help but notice that the elf grew more silent and tense the closer to Starkhaven they came; not the sort of reaction Feynriel would have expected from someone travelling to see friends that he'd feared he might never see again. By the time the walls and roofs of Starkhaven came into distant view, Fenris wasn't really talking anymore at all, barely responding to direct questions, and then mostly in monosyllables. He walked along with his head lowered, his shoulders and back rounded, as if bracing for a blow that never came.

Their final stop was just a couple of miles from the city; they could have pushed on and reached there that night, but Fenris had abruptly led the way off the road, along a path into a copse of trees, bringing them to a halt in a small clearing out of sight of the road. "We'll stay here tonight," he announced. "And enter the city in the morning." Then he'd taken off his backpack, dropping it to the ground near a soot-stained circle of stones, and stalked off to begin gathering wood for a fire.

He said nothing else the remainder of the evening, just grunting in thanks when Feynriel handed him some bread and toasted cheese and a length of dry, peppery sausage. He'd eaten the food neatly and efficiently, and was curled up in his bedroll before Feynriel had even finished his own supper.

His behaviour worried the mage, but he couldn't think of any easy way to question the elf as to the reason behind his recent behaviour. He briefly considered looking at the elf's dreams that night, but decided against such a step; it was too great an infringement on the warrior's privacy, and he would not want to lose Fenris' hard-won trust. He put away the few things he'd taken out in preparing their meal, wrapped himself in his own bedroll, and went to sleep as well.

Fenris woke him just after dawn, the elf having already brewed tea for the pair of them. Apart from the tea they had a cold meal, after which Fenris poured water over the coals of their fire and they resumed their trip. The gates of the city were already open, people travelling in and out, mostly farmers delivering produce to the city's markets. They were not stopped at all, the gate guards merely looking them over as they approached and then turning their attention elsewhere.

Fenris led the way into the city, soon turning to follow a street that led uphill, taking them out of the poorer sections and up into the areas where merchants and the reasonably well-off made their homes, then higher yet, the houses around them becoming increasingly fine in construction and large in size.

"Where are we going?" Feynriel asked nervously after a while, aware that they'd reached an area where they were drawing attention simply because they stood out in comparison to their surroundings, their clothing being nowhere near fine enough.

"We're almost there," Fenris said shortly, then sighed, and nodded further up the hill. "There."

"The _palace!?_" Feynriel exclaimed, shocked. "We're going to the palace?"

A faint smile crooked the elf's lips, the first such to cross his face in days. "Yes."

Feynriel stared at him for a moment, then turned his head to stare at the towering building. He bit his lip for a moment. "And the person we're going there to visit is...?"

"Prince Sebastian Vael, first of all," Fenris said, then picked up his pace, moving a few paces ahead of Feynriel. The mage stared after him for a moment, open-mouthed in astonishment, then hurried after him.

The mage expected them to be challenged at the gates; they were not, Fenris nodding familiarly to one of the guards and being greeted by name as casually as if he visited the palace every day. Feynriel tailed along behind him, his heart hammering in his chest, looking around with wide eyes as the elf led the way across a broad stone-flagged courtyard. They were obviously seen; a man in the simple clothing of a groom came hurrying out of an arched tunnel when they were halfway across, angling to intercept them at the foot of the stairs leading up to the main entrance, while a young page in a tabard worked with the Starkhaven crest appeared out of the doors at the top, and hurried down the steps, a grin on his face.

"Greetings, Ser Fenris," the page said, giving the elf a surprisingly deep bow. "Word has been sent to Prince Sebastian of your arrival. Would you like to refresh yourself before you see him, or be taken directly to him?"

"Directly to him, please," Fenris said, then turned to the groom. "See that our things are brought to my quarters," he instructed. The groom nodded and bowed, took the mule's leading rope from Feynriel's hand, and walked off with the beast and their gear.

The page led the way indoors, through a richly-appointed entrance hall and up a broad marble staircase, along a marquetry-floored hallway, then up a second set of stairs. They quickly came to a guarded pair of doors. "Ser Fenris," one of the guards said, nodding to the elf. "You're expected."

The guards opened the doors. Feynriel, not knowing what else to do, followed Fenris inside. They entered a large, high-ceilinged room, the walls lined with widely-spaced inset bookshelves, artwork and little tables littered with brick-a-brack and overstuffed chairs occupying the spaces between them. An ornate desk stood before a set of floor-to-ceiling windows, and a man was just rising from behind the desk as they entered; middle-aged, with swept-back reddish-brown hair, his temples frosted with grey. He had brilliant blue eyes, and smiled welcomingly.

"Fenris!" he exclaimed, and caught the elf's outstretched hand, the two of them gripping wrists, the man – Prince Vael, Feynriel assumed – leaning forward to briefly wrap one arm loosely around the elf's shoulders, then straightening up again, buffeting the elf's shoulder with his hand as he withdrew his arm. "It has been too long since you last graced my household with your presence, my friend," he said, then looked curiously at Feynriel. "And who is this you bring?"

"A friend," Fenris said. "You might recall his name, from our Kirkwall years; Hawke saved his life a time or two, and he recently saved mine. Feynriel. Feynriel, Prince Sebastian Vael."

The man cocked his head to one side in thought for a moment, then stiffened, eyes giving Feynriel a much sharper look. "Indeed I do remember the name," he agreed, and then shot Fenris a questioning look. "I assume there is a story behind why you have brought him...?"

"Yes. One I will share with you later, if I may. I would like to go pay my respects to Hawke first."

"Of course," Sebastian said, his face tensing into an expressionless mask for a moment. "Forgive me if I do not join you; I have work yet to do this morning," he said, gesturing toward his desk. "Join me for lunch later, perhaps, once you've had a chance to freshen up from your journey? You and your friend."

"We would be pleased to. Thank you," Fenris said, and bowed to his friend, before turning and leading the way out of the room again, Feynriel still following after him. He seemed to know where he was going, and to be trusted here; he led the way down the hallway and then up a winding staircase at the far end of it, no one they passed giving the pair of them more than a cursory glance.

"Where are we going now?" Feynriel asked, feeling very confused by this whole sequence of events.

"Here," Fenris said shortly, stopping in front of a door. He stood a moment, face setting and body tensing as if bracing himself, then drew a deep breath, and opened the door without knocking. He walked a few steps inside, then stopped, Feynriel at his heels.

They were in a sitting room, simply but richly furnished. The floor and wainscoting were of dark wood, the walls above and ceiling smoothly plastered and painted a creamy white. There was a scattering of simple furnishings, heavy old pieces also of dark wood, softened with needlework cushions. The drapes at the windows and a rug covering much of the floor were a deep red, almost the exact shade of red as the dress a woman sitting in one of the window embrasures was wearing, her head bent over a large embroidery frame. She was doing needlework, skeins of various coloured yarns spread out around her, on the broad sun-lit windowsill, spilling out of a basket by her feet.

"Hawke," Fenris said, quietly.

She lifted her head and turned to look at them, her face calm, unmoving, deep blue eyes looking expressionlessly at them, her otherwise smooth forehead marred by a tranquil brand.


	12. Chapter 12

Feynriel froze, staring. Hawke's calm gaze moved from Fenris' face to his. Her expression changed not at all; no curiosity, no puzzlement, no surprise, seemingly no recognition either. Her gaze turned back to the elf.

"Hello Fenris," she said, in the oddly flat, inflectionless voice of the Tranquil. Turned, to look at him again. "Hello Feynriel."

"Hawke," Fenris said again, voice softening, and moved a step forward. "You are well?"

"I am well."

"What are you working on now?" Fenris asked, and moved close enough to peer at her embroidery frame. Feynriel took a few steps closer, looking as well. A pattern of flowers, he saw, daisies, worked in white, cream and yellow on a deep green ground.

"Another cushion."

"You have many of them," Fenris said, looking around the room.

"It keeps my hands occupied. Someone will use it if I do not."

Fenris nodded, then crouched down beside her, his wrists resting on his knees, looking searchingly up into her face. She looked back at him, face still expressionless, calm.

It made Feynriel's skin crawl, that stillness. That lack of expression. That so easily could have been _him_, had events in Kirkwall gone even a little differently than they had. And that it was someone he had _known_ that this had been done to, even if only known briefly; someone whose expressions he had been familiar with, who he had seen laugh, had seen look thoughtful, angry, calculating, even frightened. Determined. Amused. All those emotions, all that personality... gone. Wiped away.

Fenris was not saying anything at all, just remained crouched there, looking intently at Hawke's face. Hawke turned away after a while, returning to her work as if they weren't even there; as if their presence meant no more to her than the presence of the furniture. And perhaps that was true.

Fenris finally rose, and turned away. "Let's go," he said, voice hoarse, and led Feynriel back out of the room, closing the door gently behind them.

"A moment," Fenris said once they were out in the hallway, and walked a few steps away. He stood, saying nothing, but Feynriel could see the quivering of his shoulders, hear the occasional wet sniffle, and knew the elf was crying, as silently as he could. It made his own heart ache, for the elf. And for Hawke, who even if she knew would not care that someone was crying on her behalf.

Finally Fenris moved again, swiping at his cheeks with his hands before turning to face Feynriel again. "This way," the elf said, voice gravelly. "There is someone else I need to see." Fenris led the way down this time, all the way to the ground floor, along winding hallways and into a vast kitchen, filled with cooks and scullions all hard at work. He walked through the place as if he had every right to be there, nodding in passing to a couple of the cooks, and filched a pair of sweet buns off a table in passing, handing one to Feynriel and then picking up a third before leading the way out a door at the far end of the room from where they'd entered.

It had been some time since breakfast, and the bun was still warm from the oven, smelling deliciously of spices, with honey glaze soaking into its top surface. Feynriel happily took a bite of his as they descended another staircase, enjoying the rich dough, studded with bits of candied peel. He wondered where Fenris was leading them; somewhere in the cellars, obviously. Or perhaps sub-cellars might be more accurate, he found himself thinking, as they passed by a landing and a door, and went down another set of stairs.

It was cool down here, almost cold, and silent, the sounds of the busy kitchen having long-since faded behind them. And dark; the staircase had been lighted, but now their only light was a torch Fenris had lit before leaving the stairwell, holding the torch overhead in on hand, cradling the two sticky buns in the other. He led the way into a cavernous space, a vaulted stone roof overhead held up by massive pillars, narrow corridors and pathways leading off in all directions among heaps and stacks of goods, mostly unidentifiable things packed away in bags, barrels and crates. Feynriel hurried after, not liking the darkness nor the silence, not wanting to be left behind.

The elf abruptly stopped, then stepped to one side and placed the torch in a holder on a nearby support column. "Wait here," Fenris said softly. "He can be dangerous to strangers."

"Who...?" Feynriel asked, then fell silent, watching as Fenris padded a little further down the narrow corridor between the stacks of goods that surrounded them. The warrior stopped some distance away, just on the edge of the pool of light. A shifting blue aura suddenly surrounded him as he activated his brands.

"It's me," Fenris called out, and waited.

Nothing happened for a moment, then there was a sound of movement from beyond Fenris, in the darkness. A rasp of moving cloth; a scuff of foot against floor.

"I've brought food," Fenris said, voice calmly conversational, and backed a few paces closer to Feynriel, back into the light, holding out a bun in one hand, lifting the other to his mouth and taking a bite of it. He chewed, and swallowed. "They're good," he said, voice gentle.

Feynriel saw the shine of light reflecting off two eyes first of all, there in the darkness, then just the merest suggestion of a pale form just beyond where the light ended. Fenris glanced around, set the bun down on top of a barrel, then backed a couple of steps closer to Feynriel, and sat down on a crate, his glow fading away as he did. He glanced toward Feynriel, gestured at a second crate beside him. "Sit," he commanded, then turned his attention back to the approaching figure.

Pale skin, with the waxy pallor of something that had not been exposed to light in a long time. Glittering eyes peered at them from behind a fall of long, lank hair, the lower face covered by a scraggly beard. The figure clutched a blanket round its thin shoulders, only head and bare feet visible among its enveloping folds; a man, Feynriel decided for no particular reason other than the unusual height and something about the stance. Whomever is was stood, studying them warily, tense and ready to flee like some wild thing. Then blinked, and straightened slightly, and moved forward into the light.

Feynriel recognized him then; Hawke's other mage. The one who'd helped to smuggle him out of Kirkwall. "Anders," he said softly.

"Yes," Fenris answered, voice equally quiet, his eyes intent on the figure as it eased closer to them.

A hand reached out from under the concealing blanket. There was something _wrong_ with the hand; the shape of it, the way it moved. Stiff and ungainly, as it picked up the sweet bun and lifted it. The bun was first sniffed, then bitten into. Anders made a wordless sound of approval, and ate hungrily, inhaling half the bun in a few mouthfuls, before settling down to a steady chewing and swallowing.

"I have another," Fenris said quietly, holding out the one he'd eaten a bite of.

The mage eyed him warily, then edged closer. Stopped, just beyond reach, and looked nervously back and forth between the pair of them. The movement parted his hair, revealing his face more clearly, and the marks on his forehead. Feynriel gasped in shock; Tranquil brands, more than one of them. And yet... there was still emotion in the man's face. He was not Tranquil.

"What... what _happened_ to him," Feynriel asked, horrified.

"Wait," Fenris said. "I will explain shortly." He gestured with the bun, holding it out a little closer to the mage. Anders suddenly moved closer, taking it out of his hand, then hunkered down on the floor beside Fenris, balanced on his toes, watching them closely as he nibbled on the second bun.

Feynriel could see him much more clearly now that he was so close; see that the oddness of his hands was them having been injured, crushed and broken at some point in time. The palm of the hand was stiff and misshapen, the fingers crooked, not all of them able to bend. As he watched, the mage slipped his other hand out from under the blanket – a hand as misshapen as the first – and set it on Fenris' knee. The elf picked it up, cupping it between both of his, warrior and mage staring silently at each other for some time, neither speaking.

Finally, Fenris sighed, and turned to look at Feynriel. "It is a long and painful story, with its roots back in Kirkwall. You knew Hawke there; I don't think you ever met Sebastian. He was a brother in the Chantry, having been sent off to them by his family. His entire family was later killed, and he met Hawke – Marian – when she helped him to avenge their deaths. He and she later became friends; the sort who spent half their time arguing with each other. And then fell madly in love with each other, arguments and all. It was a difficult time for both of them; her an apostate mage, he a member of the Chantry, and torn between his desire to remain in the Chantry and his duty to become the next Prince of Starkhaven. In the end... well, in the end they agreed that they loved each other too much to stay apart. Sebastian planned to return to Starkhaven and reclaim his throne, then marry her."

Fenris fell silent for a long moment, his head turning back to look at Anders again. "Only something else happened first," he finally said, very quietly. "Anders destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry."

Feynriel sucked in breath; he'd heard that it had been destroyed by a mage, but never the details of it. The magisters had been amused by the news of the turmoil it had caused at the time, he remembered.

"Sebastian was grief-stricken and furious, and demanded Anders' death. Hawke refused to kill him, and Sebastian left. He has regretted that ever since, that he did not stay by her side. She sent Anders away, and then she fought a night-long battle, saving what mages she could, which were few, and in the process killed Knight-Commander Meredith, who'd been driven mad by lyrium exposure. We all had to flee Kirkwall afterwards, those of us who'd stayed. We scattered. I came here, to Starkhaven – Sebastian had been one of the few I considered a real friend, back in Kirkwall. I helped him retake his throne."

The elf sighed, and shifted, curling forward slightly, back hunching. "He never stopped loving Hawke. In the end, he began searching for her. We had word of someone who might be her being spotted southeast of here, near Markham, and went to find her."

A very long silence. The mage made a faint sound, his hand twitching in Fenris' grasp. The warrior sighed again. "We arrived too late. She had re-encountered and begun travelling with Anders at some point in time, it seems. Templars had managed to capture them, a day or so before we caught up with them. They had... it was ugly." His voice was hoarse now, his hands tightening around the mage's. When he continued, his voice was very controlled, empty of emotion in the way of someone who was trying not to think of what the words they said meant; trying not to give in to some terrible grief or anger or both.

"The Templars had caught them, and silenced them. They bound Anders, and made him watch while they abused Hawke, then made her Tranquil. He burst his fetters, and attacked them, injuring several and killing at least one, trying to prevent it. They silenced him again, tied him, and used the iron on him too. Only it didn't work; he broke free again, attacked again. They used the iron a second time; it made no difference. They became frightened; they had never had the Rite of Tranquillity fail before. When it failed a third time, they... were horrified. And did horrific things, in their fear. For Templars, they had some astoundingly wrong beliefs about how magic worked. They crushed his hands, so he could not make magical gestures; cut out his tongue, so he could not speak magical words. Neither of which had any real effect; magic is will, not words and gestures. They stunned him, overwhelmed him, beat him and drained him repeatedly while they applied the iron over and over again, until they had stirred his mind so thoroughly, treated it and him so roughly, that he was no longer capable of acting against them."

He drew a deep, shuddering breath. "We arrived toward the end of that; I will never forget that moment, coming out into that charnel-pit of a clearing. Over half the templars were dead or injured by then, Hawke still bound and senseless off to one side, a heaving mob of templars surrounding the screaming bloody thing that had been Anders. And most of them screaming as well, barely sane in their fear of Anders; I am surprised they did not simply kill him outright. Sebastian... went a little mad, himself, when he saw what had been done to Hawke. I was little better. We killed them, all of the templars, whole and wounded men both. All but one, a dying man, who confessed to us what had happened there, before he too died."

Fenris lifted one hand and reached out, lightly touching the side of Anders' head. "I hated him once, you know. Anders and I were never friends. I would have been willing to put him out of his misery right then and there, but Sebastian... Sebastian saw hope in him. The Rite had failed with Anders, not just once but over and over again. Somewhere in this broken shell might be a cure, a way to restore Marian to what she was. So we brought them both back here, cared for them. Oddly enough for all our mutual dislike of each other in the past, I was the only person Anders wasn't frightened of; the one person not in danger from him. He can still do magic, but it is like the biting of a scared dog, the clawing of a startled cat; it comes out unexpectedly, when he is stressed. I ended up being his nursemaid, for the first few months, until he learned to trust others. Somewhere in there my hatred of him died. I feel only pity for him now; pity and sorrow. He was a brilliant man once, and generous with his skills of healing. Now he is little more than an animal, not even as intelligent as those big dogs the Fereldans love."

The mage had closed his eyes, and was leaning heavily against Fenris' leg, head pushed against the elf's hand, much like the dog he'd just been compared to would have done. Fenris brushed his limp hair back from his forehead, then lightly touched his fingertips to the marks there. They covered Anders' forehead from temple to temple, Feynriel saw, overlapping randomly one on top of the other, some half-hidden in his hairline.

"I found myself wondering, on the way here, if you might be able to help him. He must still be in there somewhere, the Anders I once knew, locked away in his own head. Hiding and broken. If you... if you looked for him in dreams, do you think you might be able to find him? To heal him? Or at least make some attempt to find out why the Rite failed."

Feynriel gave Fenris a startled look, then turned his attention back to the other mage. He shivered, finding it all-too-easy to imagine the horrific scene the elf had described, in which the mage was turned into this broken thing. "I don't know," he said, and bit his lip, chewing it for a moment. "Though I don't think it could hurt anything to try. Let me give it some thought."

Fenris nodded, silent.

"Why is he down here?"

"He prefers it here. We had him upstairs, at first, in a room not much different than Hawke's. Once he got well enough to move around on his own, he escaped it. We'd find him hiding somewhere small and dark, usually, and bring him back, and as soon as he could, he'd escape again." A very faint smile momentarily crooked the elf's lips. "He's always been good at getting out of places where he didn't want to be. We worried at first; what if he was frightened by someone and attacked them? But he found his way to the cellars eventually, and he seems... calmer, down here. I suppose it reminds him of the Darktown tunnels. He has a nest, we think, hidden away somewhere in all of this. Mostly he avoids anyone who comes down here, and the few servants he trusts enough to show himself to have all learned to be quiet and gentle with him. They see to it that food and drink is brought down regularly for him, blankets and clothing too, and a slop bucket that gets changed daily. They even manage to get him to bathe, occasionally."

Feynriel studied Anders silently. He realized he was still holding half of a bun in his own hand, and hesitantly held it out. The mage looked warily back and forth between the bun and him, then slowly reached out and took it. He didn't eat it, but just held it in one hand as he rose to his feet, then turned and retreated into the dark again, as silently as he'd come.

Fenris took a deep breath, then sighed, some tension leaving his body. "I'll show you the way to our rooms. We still have time to bathe and change before lunch with Sebastian. We can talk more of this later." He rose, and retrieved the torch.

Feynriel nodded, and followed him away, back up into the lighted levels of the castle.


	13. Chapter 13

It was good to be completely clean again. Not just clean in body, but clean in dress, too, Fenris having loaned the mage some of his own clothing. There'd been an entire clothes-press full of outfits in the elf's bedroom, many in expensive fabrics, with beautifully embroidered detailing.

"Gifts from Sebastian," Fenris had said, seeming uncaring of the value of them. "He felt that I should not be at a disadvantage in dress when visiting him. I leave them here; they are too fine to take on the road when I travel."

Fenris' suite of rooms were as fine as the clothing, and as well-decorated, the walls, drapery, rugs and bedding all in shades of light blue, green and cream, the woodwork some pale blond wood. Birch, maybe, or ash. It was well-lit, with wide deep window embrasures lining the outer walls of the sitting room and bedroom. Even the bathing chamber had a pair of narrow windows, as well as dwarven plumbing and one of the largest tubs the mage had ever seen. Feynriel wished he'd had time to take a longer bath, and to explore the array of different soaps, shampoos, bath oils, and so on that occupied several shelves worth of space. But he'd had to wait his turn, Fenris having first claim on the facilities, and had spent the time exploring a bookshelf in the sitting room, the contents of which turned out to cover a fascinatingly eclectic range of subjects. After which there'd been only half an hour remaining in which to bath, dry off, and change into the clothes Fenris had supplied, before following him to Prince Sebastian's personal suite for lunch.

The door to the Prince's chambers was not far from Fenris' own; a clear sign of what high favour the prince held the warrior in, that he was lodged so close at hand. The guards passed them through without question. Inside the doors was a small entry hall, beautifully decorated, with a door to one side, and a large archway ahead of them, leading into a sitting room.

"If you need the convenience while we're here, the guest room is through there," Fenris said quietly, gesturing to the closed door, then led the way into the sitting room. It was larger than Fenris' entire suite of rooms, one whole wall of it a series of floor-to-ceiling windows. There was a large fireplace in the wall opposite the windows, with doors to either side of it, as well as another door in the far wall.

A servant was just coming out of the closest door. He stopped and bowed as soon as he saw Fenris. "We've not yet served, Ser Fenris – you'll find Prince Sebastian in his study."

"Thank you," Fenris said, nodding to the man, and continued on to the door on the other side of the fireplace, rapping once, and barely pausing for an answer before opening it and leading the way in.

It was a relatively small room, with a desk piled high with books and papers in front of a window at the far end of it. One wall was lined with bookcases, while along the other was a small fireplace flanked by a pair of wing-back chairs. The prince was seated in one, a large book held open in one hand, a small girl seated on his lap. She looked to be perhaps four or five years of age, with a mane of curly black hair, pale skin marked with a few dark freckles on the arch of her nose, and dark green eyes. Her face lit up with a happy smile as the sight of the warrior.

"Fen!" she shrieked, and immediately wiggled free of Sebastian's lap, throwing herself at the elf.

"Little Bit!" he exclaimed in turn, then caught her and lifted her up, giving her a warm hug before shifting her to his hip, one arm wrapped around her to brace her there. She hooked one arm around his neck, smiling trustingly up at him "I hope you've been a good girl while I was away," he said, smiling warmly back at her. "And haven't been giving Sebastian any problems. Or your nurse!"

Sebastian had put aside the book, and now rose to his feet, smiling warmly at the pair. "She's been a very good girl recently, actually."

"Maker! How'd you accomplish that? Bribery?" Fenris asked, pretending astonishment.

Sebastian grinned for a moment. "There may perhaps be a promise of a kitten involved," he said very solemnly, a dimple briefly appearing by one corner of his mouth.

Fenris snorted, then frowned sternly at the girl. "Make sure he gives you a very nice kitten, Bethany. Or he'll have to answer to me!"

She crossed her arms and nodded firmly, lips pouting out a little, which made Sebastian laugh and Fenris grin. Feynriel found himself smiling as well.

A bell rang softly somewhere nearby. "That will be our lunch," Sebastian said, and gestured to the door. "We'd better go take our seats before it gets cold."

Fenris nodded, and lowered Bethany to the floor. She promptly raced off out of the door, the skirt of her dress billowing out behind her, the rest of them following at a more decorous pace. She was already seated when they reached the dining room, watching intently as an elderly servant lifted the lids off of an array of covered dishes in the middle of the table. She made a face and shook her head; he replaced the lid, and lifted another, at which she smiled and nodded, and he carefully served her a portion of what the dish contained.

"Make sure to serve her some vegetables, Wren," Sebastian said, as he walked around the table to claim a chair across from her. Fenris sat to his right, and Feynriel perforce took the remaining chair, to the prince's left. "Or no kitten," he said to the girl when she gave him a betrayed look. She sighed, but made no complaint when the servant lifted the cover on one of the dishes he'd already passed by, and served her a spoonful of vegetables.

The servant bowed and left after filling Bethany's plate, and Sebastian and Fenris began serving themselves from the dishes. Fenris gestured for Feynriel to do the same.

"We usually dine quite informally, when it's just us," Sebastian said to Feynriel, then turned to Fenris. "So what have you been up to since your last visit? And what brings the both of you here at this time?"

"A number of things," Fenris said. "After my last visit here I went wandering for a while; I went by riverboat all the way down to the mouth of the Minanter; to Bastion. And chanced to cross paths with an old friend of ours there," he added, smiling as he lifted his wineglass.

Sebastian grinned. "Let me guess – Isabela?"

Fenris nodded, and sipped his wine. "Indeed. She invited me to join her crew for a while, so I did, and spent some months travelling with her; back and forth across the Rialto Bay between Antiva and Rivain mostly, but we did make one long run all the way down to Gwaren, and then on the way back went west into the Waking Sea. She was headed for Cumberland with a load of wood, and under it, a load of weapons she was proposing to smuggle past the Orlesian navy, their border war with Nevarra having started up again. Isabela planned to see if she could wrangle a Letter of Marque out of the Nevarrans, afterwards. I had no great desire to take part in either the sword-running nor the privateering, and was feeling somewhat unwell besides, so I left ship when she stopped in at Highever for supplies before entering Orlesian waters."

Fenris frowned again, lost in thought for a moment. "An interesting country, if rather colder than I liked. I travelled down to tour Lake Calenhad before eventually turning east, planning to take ship back to the north from Denerim. By then I was beginning to feel more than just somewhat unwell," he said, and looked up at Sebastian, speaking quietly. "The magic that prevented my lyrium from poisoning me was failing."

Sebastian went pale, his jaw setting. He drew a deep breath through his nose, then spoke anxiously. "_Was_ failing... you are well now then? You are not..."

"Not dying, no," Fenris acknowledged, then nodded toward Feynriel. "Thanks to Feynriel here. By the time I'd made it back as far as Kirkwall, I _was_ dying. Aveline and Donnic took me in, and were caring for me, in what we all believed would be my final days. And then Feynriel came to me, and healed me. I owe him my life."

Sebastian turned to Feynriel. "Than I owe you as well; I value my good friend Fenris more than words can say. If there is anything I can ever do to help you, you have only to ask; if it is within my power, it will be done."

Feynriel found himself feeling a little overwhelmed by the man's obvious sincerity. "It was the least I could do, having been saved by Fenris myself in the past."

"Nonetheless, my offer still holds."

"There is more," Fenris put in. "If you remember Feynriel's name... do you also recall what his special power is? Or were you never told?"

"I recall it," Sebastian said guardedly.

"I had a thought concerning it. That perhaps he may be able to heal some or all of the harm that was done Anders, restore him to himself enough that he can explain how he resisted being made Tranquil. And whether or not it is something that may be used to cure Hawke."

Sebastian went very still, then turned to Feynriel, a look of hope on his face. "Do you truly think you can do such?"

"I don't know," Feynriel admitted. "Fenris only proposed the idea to me a little while ago; I need to give it some thought, a trial... I think it cannot hurt to at least _try_."

Sebastian abruptly rose to his feet, turning his back and moving a few feet away. There was a long pause; Feynriel could see the tenseness of his posture, the trembling of his hands. "If you can... if you can, there is nothing I will not owe you," he said at last, voice strained and cracking.

"What's wrong?" Bethany suddenly asked, sounding scared and looking back and forth between Fenris and Sebastian.

"Nothing is wrong, sweetness," Fenris said calmly, smiling reassuringly at the girl. "Everything is fine. We can speak more of this later," he said to Sebastian, who had turned back and hurried over to soothe the worried girl.

"Yes... later would be fine," Sebastian said, forcing a light tone, then quickly changed the subject, to talk of kittens and a particularly pretty dress that he thought Bethany needed to wear and show off to Fenris the next day. Bethany was soon happy and smiling again, especially when Sebastian allowed her two servings of dessert. Her nurse arrived to collect her after that. Sebastian had more work to return to, but promised to talk further with them that evening. Fenris and Feynriel headed back to Fenris' rooms, both feeling ready for a rest.

"The girl – is she Hawke's daughter?" Feynriel dared to ask once they were in the privacy of the elf's rooms again.

Fenris sighed. "Yes."

"And... her father...?"

"Is not Sebastian. We do not know, except that whomever he was, either Sebastian, Anders or myself killed him that day," Fenris said, then walked over to the window, looking out for a long moment before continuing. "Sebastian asked Hawke, when we realized she was pregnant, whether or not she wished to keep the child. She said she saw no reason to end the pregnancy, which I suppose is the answer we should have expected from one who is Tranquil. It was Marian who named her, and she even looked after Bethany for a while after she was first born, though... being as she is, she feels no actual attachment to the girl."

He fell silent again. Feynriel thought there was nothing more he was going to say, and then he abruptly spoke again, voice barely above a whisper. "Sebastian and Marian had decided that, when they wed, they would have no children, but would adopt an heir from among those of Sebastian's cousins who yet lived; Hawke did not want to introduce the curse of her magic into the Vael royal line, not after all the grief it had brought her own family in her life. Sebastian raises Bethany as if she is his own daughter; he loves her as such, but she is not his heir. I do not know how Hawke will feel about her, if – when – she recovers. I hope it will not be another source of pain to her; she has suffered enough."

He said nothing else after that, just sat down on the wide windowsill and leaned against the glass, staring out.


	14. Chapter 14

It was the next evening before Feynriel was ready to take the first step in deciding if anything could be done for Anders; locating him in dreams, to see what he looked like in the Fade. It would, he told Fenris and Sebastian, be easiest for him to first locate Fenris, and then with Fenris' aid search for Anders; the warrior knew the man far better than Feynriel did, and with his help the search should go much quicker.

Fenris agreed, and when they settled down to sleep that night, it was with the hope of meeting in dreams.

Locating Fenris in the Fade was an easy task, the two of them knowing each other so well by now and having met there so many times already; as easy of slipping on a familiar article of clothing. He just _reached_ toward the elf in a certain way, and then there Fenris was, engaged in fighting a group of amorphous shapes with too many legs and large glittering eyes, dream-equivalents of the giant spiders that were so common throughout much of Thedas. They vanished away as soon as Fenris noticed his presence.

"Now what?" the elf asked.

"Now we look for Anders. It's easiest for me to find someone I already know; I can concentrate on them, on what they're like and then ask the wisps to find them for me. It's much harder to find people I don't know."

"So I should concentrate on Anders...?"

"Yes, and I will ask the wisps to find the man you are thinking of. It may take some time; the wisps are spread all throughout the Fade, and they can communicate with each other like bees telling each other where flowers may be found, but the message must travel out, and the answer back, and the Fade is a very large place."

Fenris nodded, then set his jaw, eyes unfocussed as he concentrated. He considered everything he knew about the mage; what he looked like, how he talked, a proliferation of images of both the vital, driven man he's been back in Kirkwall, and the broken remnant that was all that remained of him.

Feynriel, meanwhile, summoned a number of wisps – including Fenris' five, hovering near-at-hand as they were – and asked them to seek the man in Fenris' thoughts. The wisps hovered around Fenris for a little while, tasting his thoughts as a bee would taste a flower's nectar, then scattered in various directions. Most did not return, wandering off on their own tasks after spreading Feynriel's query to wisps that were further afield. Fenris' five all returned, and a few others that hovered near Feynriel, waiting to see if he did anything else interesting.

They waited. Fenris' attention wandered after a while. Feynriel remained quiet, watching the Fade respond to the elf's dreaming mind. It was a peaceful dream this time, just landscapes passing by, changing from fields to forest to town to sea and back in the near-random logic of dreams. Sometimes the shapes would assume near-familiarity; places he recognized from Minrathous and Kirkwall, or occasionally their trip here, but distorted, different, some times blended with other places.

Time passed, in that first-too-fast and then-too-slow, jumpy way that time did in dreams, where hours and days could pass in what was only minutes of real time, or a few minutes stretch out for an hour. Fenris' dreams had begun to shade to a darker place, with unsettling movement in the shadows, when the wisps suddenly stopped their random hovering and began moving around in the rapid way that conveyed excitement and satisfaction. A brief questioning thought to the wisps gave him an impression, a guide to where the mind that matched the person from Fenris' thoughts could be found, a sense of where in the Fade the mind was in relation to where he was, like sticking a pin in a map.

A touch of his power recalled Fenris out of his dreams, and to awareness of Feynriel's presence. The elf blinked and looked around, confused for only a moment before recalling why Feynriel was there. "Have they found him?" Fenris asked.

"It seems so – now we just have to go to where he is."

"Will that take long?"

"No... the Fade is large, but once I know where the dreaming mind I want to find is, the distance between does not matter. I just shift my own mind to where the other is. There is no real motion, distance, or time in the Fade – so just one moment we will be here, in your dream, and then we will be there, in his. Are you ready?"

Fenris drew a deep breath, and flexed his hands, then nodded. "I am ready," he said.

Feynriel reached for the other mind, and brought them into its dream.


	15. Chapter 15

A jumble of stone on a rise in a vast flatness. The surface of the flatness was a shifting moire of colours, mostly greys and blues and greens and sometimes creamy white or sun-flash brilliance; a dream of water, a lake or ocean, at many moments in time.

They threaded their way among tumbled heaps of broken stone, from blocks bigger than they were to scattered gravel-sized pieces; sharp-edged and jagged, it would have been painful to walk on it if was not the stuff of dreams. At the centre, a bit of broken-off wall, a soaring column truncated high overhead, a pointed archway of fractured stone over stairs leading down to an arched double-door, one leaf partially open, showing only darkness beyond it.

"That way," Feynriel said.

Fenris eyed the stairs and doors dubiously, then sighed, and started down. The door swung open easily at a touch, with a complete soundlessness that was more eerie than any shriek of rusty hinges or scrape on stone could be. More stairs, beyond the door, down to a hallway, lit by a sourceless blue glow.

It was dark at the bottom; not just dim, but _dark_, the far end of the hallway vanishing off into an absolute blackness, not even a vague suggestion of line, shape or form within in. They both paused, disconcerted by it. Feynriel questioned one of the wisps following them, making sure that was the way to go. The wisp bobbled, amused, and flitted forward into the darkness. Even its light vanished when it crossed over into it; not just not lighting its surroundings, but vanishing entirely, the wisp itself not visible. He tensed for a moment, and then it burst back out again, its path a rapid erratic bobbing as it flew back to him. He sensed nothing from it that might be fear or caution; more a feeling as if it was laughing at him, amused by his hesitation.

"This way," he said, steeling himself, and then walked forward. Fenris did not hesitate, but trustingly followed on his heels. But then this was, he reminded himself, a man who'd walked into the darkness of a cellar where he _knew_ beyond doubt that an unstable mage was; this same mage whose dream they now wandered. He smiled with rueful humour, considering that to Fenris, this might seem a natural place to find Anders; in darkness, below ground.

It was not dark for long; as they reached the place where the corridor shaded abruptly from charcoal grey to black, a torch flared to light ahead of them. A torch that burned with a blue flame, a bright blue like lyrium crystals, white at its heart. They could see the corridor ran a short distance further then turned to the right, a large door in the wall facing them at the bend. At least, it looked like a door, but as they drew closer it was clear that it was not a real door, not real enough to pass through, just a door-shaped part of the wall, covered in a rime of frost.

Feynriel felt the hairs on the back of his neck stirring as he studied it; something about it disturbed him.

Fenris started to reach a hand out toward it, to touch it; Feynriel grabbed his wrist. "Don't," he said, then quickly released the elf. "Be careful in other people's dreams; you can't be sure what is dangerous and what is safe."

"Dangerous?" Fenris asked, frowning.

"To the sleeper more than to us. Things in our dreams often represent things in our thoughts; not just our conscious thoughts, but our hidden thoughts. Things we have forgotten, or have simply not thought of in a long time. Some are things we have purposefully forgotten, our sleeping mind protecting our waking one from harmful memories. Whatever this false door represents, I suspect it might fall into that last category. Better not to disturb it."

Fenris' frown deepened, but he nodded and turned to the right. Once again they faced a place where the hallway disappeared into darkness; again a torch lit as they walked closer to it. There was another door here, sealing the corridor from side to side, but this one opened as they approached it. The darkened hallway stretched onwards beyond it. Fenris and Feynriel exchanged a glance, then Feynriel slowly led the way forward. Forward yet further, another torch revealing a bend to the left, and stairs upwards.

The corridor ran straight again, the left hand wall curiously marked and indented – some detail of it that was not really remembered - then down more stairs, and to another door. It too opened as they approached. The corridor's path became more convoluted after that; many turns to right and left, with more doors, though none leading off it, oddly enough.

Feynriel thought from the solidity of the dream-place they were passing through that it might be based on some real place, some real corridor that Anders had been familiar with, but as often happens in dreams, only the important details – those important to the mage himself – had been preserved. It was a pathway, a route, with occasionally an amorphous shape that might have been a statue on a pedestal, or markings on the wall; landmarks that the mage had noted in his passage down this hallway, the only remembered details of it.

The silence of the place was unnerving; none of the sounds that such a place would have had in the real world. No distant murmur of voices, no squeaking of mice nor sounds of small claws skittering away over the stone. Not even the odd moaning sounds that air would make, moving through such tunnels, nor dripping water, nothing.

They came eventually to a place that widened out into an L-shaped room, remembered in much more detail than the corridor; walls lines with bookshelves and man-sized cages, tables topped with all the gear needed for the making of potions, rugs on the floor. And another door, leading out of it, back in the direction they'd come from.

It let into a broad hallway, long and well-lit; no more torches here, just the same sourceless, shadowless blue glow there had been earlier. It was far more detailed than any other place they had yet passed through; a place well-known to the sleeping mind, remembered clearly, in great detail. The floor was large square tiles of fine marble, odd to see in a place so far below ground, the walls made of stone blocks footed by a carved stone band that rose from the floor to above head-height, the ceiling twice again higher than it. Decorative pilasters and arches divided the walls into sections. There was a statue halfway down it, on the left, a woman holding out a golden bowl. And sound here, at last; a sound like footsteps, walking slowly back and forth down the hall, sometimes scuffing against the polished stone. A place the mage had often walked, perhaps.

At the end of the broad hallway was another door, as detailed as the hallway was, bearing a disturbing resemblance to the door-that-was-not-a-door, only writ smaller; the same frost-like coating glistened on it, through he was sure that this one was a real door. It did not open as they approached, but instead remained shut, a barrier to their progress.

Feynriel hesitated before it, questioning the wisps again. Through it, their imagery insisted. He didn't like to touch it, but forced himself to do so, setting hand to the frost-covered wood of it, half-expecting to feel the bite of cold against his palm, and feeling nothing, not even the surface of the door, before it slowly eased open.

They stepped through into a large, square room, most of it walled off with bars to form two large cells, a barred opening in the left-hand wall forming a third; clearly a jail of some kind.

And not empty.

"_You!_" Fenris exclaimed, face contorting in distrust and hatred. He stepped between Feynriel and the glowing ghost-like figure that stood at the far corner of the room. A huge broadsword appeared in the elf's hands, and he took up a stance, ready to attack or defend if needed. "I might have known that _you_ would be here."

It turned to face them. Feynriel bit back a gasp; he'd seen Spirits of the Fade before, but none like this. The upper part was what he was used to seeing many of them take, a shape not unlike an armoured man in a closed helm, but the lower part... it was all wrong. It kept changing, now a thick tail like some great snake, now skinny legs dressed in rags with a great shackle around one ankle, now the skirt of a mage's robes, now a misty cloud filled with swirling flakes like a snowstorm.

"What _is_ that?" he asked.

"It is Vengeance," Fenris said, not taking his eyes off the strange figure. "Anders' demon."

"No demon," it said, voice calm and mild. "I am no longer that twisted thing called Vengeance; I am myself once again. I am Justice."


	16. Chapter 16

"What's he talking about?" Feynriel asked Fenris in a low voice.

Fenris glanced at Feynriel, then returned his attention to the being – spirit or demon, whichever it was – and explained. "Anders was not just an apostate, but an abomination. He had allowed this _thing_, which claimed to be a Spirit of Justice, to share his body. He claimed that they were merged, but that in the merging the spirit changed, was warped into a spirit of Vengeance. It was at this creature's promptings that he destroyed the Kirkwall chantry; I have long suspected it was no spirit, but a demon, if there is even any real difference between the two."

"That explanation is correct in the broad details," the spirit said. "Though it was not our merging that warped me; it was separation from the Fade and my fellow spirits. For what is Justice, when there is no Compassion to temper it, or Mercy to stay its hand? I was out of balance, there in your world. _That_ is what corrupted me; his memories of injustice were merely the final straw, the end of a process that had begun as soon as I was banished from my rightful place here."

The spirit turned, and looked into the cell it was standing in front of. "When the templars sought to destroy us, _he_ somehow restored me to my place in the Fade; his last gift to me. I tried to protect his mind, to keep it whole, but separate from him I could not contain all of it. Each time they worked the Rite on him, more of it fractured, broke away and scattered. In the end I held only a small part of him, a tattered remnant of the man he once was."

He turned back to them. "I have remained here to protect what is left of him; not just from the creatures of the Fade that would have been pleased to devour what remained and turn him into a true abomination, but from his own memories. They are dark and terrible. I will protect him from you as well, if I must. What do you here?"

"We seek to heal him," Feynriel explained. "If it can be done."

"Why?"

"Several reasons, though the one of most importance to us is that the Rite of Tranquility was worked on him, but failed; he is still a mage. He still has emotions. You are aware that they also performed it on Hawke?"

There was a pause, then Justice nodded. "Yes. I saw it done. I could not help her."

"We hope that whatever it is that prevented him from being made Tranquil is something that can be used to heal Hawke, to restore her to what she once was. To do so we must be able to talk with and question him; he must be sane enough to think and answer. You know I am _somniari_ – if his mind can be healed here, in dreams, than I can do it."

"If the spirit was present while the Rite was being worked, he too might know what the answer is," Fenris suddenly pointed out.

Justice turned slightly, facing him. "You would seek the answer from me, and leave him to his suffering?" it asked, its voice hostile. Feynriel tensed; the spirits could be dangerous, when roused.

"No, I would not leave him to his suffering," Fenris said quietly. He straightened suddenly, making a motion as if sheathing his sword; it faded away, as things in dreams do. "If he can be healed, I would see him healed. Whatever help I can give Feynriel to do so, I will provide."

The spirit stood very still for a long moment, then abruptly crossed its arms over its chest and bowed. "I believe your words," it said. "And I believe I know what prevented the Rite from working. Do what you can to heal Anders, and I will do what I can to help you to restore Hawke."

"May I see him?" Feynriel asked.

The spirit stepped aside, and gestured with one hand to the cell door. Feynriel walked over, peering through the open door.

The cell was small, the stone floor covered in moldering straw, scattered with a few blankets as coarsely woven as burlap and covered in suspicious stains. There was a camp cot of the simplest construction, a length of tough leather stretched over a folding framework of sticks. Chains hung down from the ceiling, ending in hooks and manacles, most suspended too high overhead to be of any practical use. They swayed slightly, making faint sounds. For a moment he couldn't see anyone there, and then a lump in the far corner resolved into a blanket-wrapped form, a shock of filthy hair sticking out the upper end.

"Anders?" he called softly.

"He does not speak," Justice said. "Go in, if you wish; I must guard the hall."

The spirit turned away. Feynriel bit his lip, then entered the cell, Fenris padding along quietly after him. He paused, studying the blanket-wrapped form, then crouched down.

"Anders?" he said again, then reached out and grasped the blanket, tugging it gently away. For a moment a child stared back at him, eyes wide and frightened under a fall of raggedly-cropped bangs, pale skin smudged with dirt. The form shifted, aged – a young man, instead, no child. The eyes stayed the same, equally wide and frightened.

Fenris cursed, venomously. Feynriel could see why; the mage's back was marked with stripes from a recent lashing, his skin mottled with bruises old and new, cheeks gaunt from hunger. The form changed again, the stripes turning into scars, the bruises mostly fading, a few new ones taking their place. And again – somewhere between the youth and the man, back unmarked again but face streaked with tears. And always, the look of fear in the eyes.

They both jumped at the sound of sudden swordplay from outside the cell; Anders gave a soft cry, and hid himself away in the blanket again. Feynriel rose to his feet, feeling sickened by what they'd seen, and hurried back out of the cell.

Justice was just sheathing a sword, a vaguely humanoid shape heaped at his feet, already vanishing away.

"A demon?" Fenris asked warily, eyeing it.

"No. One of his nightmares," Justice said, and turned back to them, looking toward Feynriel. "Can you help him?"

"I'm not sure. Tell me more of what happened, when the Rite was done – you spoke of his mind fracturing and scattering?"

"Yes. Thoughts, memories, experiences, all that made him _Anders_... it broke apart, like dried clay crumbling, the pieces scattering out into the Fade. I held onto what I could. After it ended, I gathered together what few lost parts were in reach, but I could not go far - I dared not leave him alone for long, not weakened as he is. Even if a demon did not get to him, his own memories might have driven him mad. There is not enough of him left to protect himself even from those; I stand between him and the worst of them, and keep him as safe as I can."

Feynriel nodded. "So we must find the remaining parts of him, then."

"I believe so. They will be hard to find; they are merely shapes in other people's dreams, spread throughout the Fade. The wisps answer to you," he added, looking up at the handful of them hovering overhead. "They will be able to help look, though even for them it will be hard; the parts of the whole do not have the look or flavour of the whole, no more than a fragment of bark looks like the tree it is from, or a chip of stone like the mountain it was once part of."

Feynriel nodded slowly, then glanced around, frowning. "It has been a long night; Fenris and I will wake soon," he said. "I will consider how to search; we will return either tonight, or the next night, to make a first trial at searching. The parts, once found, should be brought back here?"

"Yes."

"And then what?"

"They merge back into the whole, once they are brought close enough. Like moves to and rejoins like, as rain falls and water flows to rejoin the ocean. I will await your return," Justice said, and resumed his guard stance by the door.

* * *

It was not yet dawn, though the sky had begun to lighten to it, Feynriel saw as he glanced toward the window nearby. Fenris drew a sudden deep gasp of breath, sitting bolt-upright on his bed, then looking around and down at Feynriel, where he lay on a trundle-bed nearby.

"That was very strange," the elf said.

"It was," Feynriel agreed. "I will want to know more of this spirit of Justice later; anything you know of how it came to be part of Anders. It is a very odd spirit – I have spoken to spirits before, and they are usually much simpler creatures, more focused on their particular virtue or base concept. I have never heard one speak so articulately before; not just articulate, but poetically, suing comparisons and analogies. Such things require a more complex degree of thought than they are usually capable of. Not to mention that such spirits are usually lacking the references to make comparisons to real world things."

Fenris frowned slightly and nodded. "I will tell you what I know of him; it is a long story, and ugly in places. But we should rise and eat first; I am sure we have a long day of talk ahead of us in any case."

Feynriel nodded agreement.


	17. Chapter 17

The day was spent in talk, mostly in Fenris telling Feynriel about the spirit that called itself Justice, and what little he knew about how it had ended up banished to the real world, and then later merging with Anders. And what the two of them together had done in Kirkwall, not just the destruction of the Chantry but every other incident he had either witnessed or heard about.

The two of them visited Anders in the basement a second time, spending some time sitting with him. They fed him tidbits to keep him interested in staying near them, while Feynriel studied him as closely as he could; the better he knew the man, even in his current degraded state, the easier it would be to seek out him and parts of him in the Fade.

Fenris relaxed enough at one point to begin his tuneless humming; one of his wisps appeared. Anders started at it in wide-mouthed fascination, as if he'd never even seen one before. He was content to just sit and stare for a very long time before he suddenly snatched up the collection of uneaten bits of food he'd gathered by his knee, and scurried off into the darkness again, ending their visit.

They dined that night with Sebastian, telling him a little of what they'd learned so far. He was disturbed by their description of Anders in the Fade, and expressed wariness of Justice, whom he'd only encountered once in Kirkwall.

"A memorable moment," he said grimly. "The creature almost drove Anders into killing a young mage girl we'd just rescued from corrupt templars. Whatever it is, spirit or demon, I cannot believe that it is as benign as it might have us believe."

Feynriel nodded. "Few of the spirits are; they represent ideals, virtues, immaterial concepts, and are mostly blindly loyal to the thing they represent. Anything carried to extreme can be harmful; even seemingly peaceful or gentle concepts. Loyalty itself, for example, if it serves an evil cause. Mercy, if not tempered with caution. Faith, if it makes one blind to faults in doctrine and dogma."

Sebastian winced slightly at that last one, then smiled crookedly. "I must admit there is truth in your words. But tell me, do you trust this spirit?"

"Guardedly, yes. Unlike demons, the spirits are not given to lying. Not direct lies, anyway, though some few of them have mastered how to lie by omission, to only tell the part of a truth that serves them and their purpose. I promise that I will be particularly cautious of Justice; his passage through the material world has clearly changed him. He is like no other spirit I have ever seen."

Fenris nodded. "I, too, will be careful – I do not trust him, even if he claims that he is no longer Vengeance."

After the meal Fenris and Feynriel returned to Fenris' rooms, and spent the remainder of their evening in discussing what to attempt doing that night. They retired early, so as to have as long a time in which to work as possible.

* * *

The journey to relocate the mage was much shorter this time; the wisps already knew where he was when they entered the Fade, and when they reached the location, it was a far simpler place to get into than the tunnels of the night before. A barn, it looked like. Anders was a small child, hiding in the straw inside, Justice again standing guard nearby.

"One of his more peaceful dreams," the spirit told them. "Though this place, too, has a nightmare it may become. He dreams of fire here, sometimes; it was how his powers first manifested. But tonight is a dream of an earlier time than that, and hopefully will stay that way."

Feynriel squatted down and watched the child-Anders for a while. Fenris could tell when he began working his magic; more wisps began coming in, hovering near the two mages for a while, and then leaving again. He waited, standing silently near and watching, until Feynriel abruptly rose to his feet, staring intently at one particular wisp. "They've found something," he said, and then the barn, Anders and Justice faded away, and the two of them were on a high cliff-top overlooking a flat area with the moire-texturing of water, scattered with dark odd-shaped lumps.

Feynriel frowned slightly, cocking his head slightly to one side. "This seems almost familiar," he said.

Fenris turned a slow circle. "It looks rather like the Wounded Coast," he pointed out, and gestured. "The rise behind us, the cliffs overlooking rocks and wrecks below."

"You're right," Feynriel said, looking around as well. "I only ever saw it briefly, when I fled from Kirkwall to join the Dalish for a while; Hawke took me along the coast for a bit, before turning inland to Sundermount."

Fenris nodded agreement, having been that route more than once himself. "Well, now what do we look for?" he asked.

"Some part of Anders; the wisps are sure there is one here, and not too far from this spot. They are unable to narrow it down much further."

Fenris looked around again. "I don't see anything, offhand. I suppose we need to go exploring. I just hope this dream is lacking in some of the features of the real coastline."

"Smugglers, slavers, tal'vashoth, and giant spiders, you mean?" Feynriel asked, a brief grin lighting his face.

Fenris smiled crookedly. "Yes. Among other things."

They searched fruitlessly for some time until, retracing their steps back toward where they had first come into the place, Fenris spotted movement out of the corner of one eye. "There," he called, pointing, and then picked his way into a clump of bushes, toward a tattered grey feather that was caught on one branch, fluttering as if in a wind, though nothing else stirred. He hesitated a moment. "Is it safe for me to touch it?" he asked Feynriel.

"It should be; it's just a fragment of thought or memory, not anything real."

Fenris nodded, then carefully picked it up. He expected to feel contact with it, but there was no sensation at all, really – just it fluttering from the branch one moment, and then lying still in his hand. He walked back out of the bushes, and held it out to Feynriel. The mage touched it with one finger, and then it was gone, vanished away entirely.

"I've sent it back to him," Feynriel said, then looked at the wisps hovering around them. "They've found other pieces already; let's go."


	18. Chapter 18

The second part of Anders they found was easier to spot; the wisps had brought them to a large cavernous room, rather like Anders' old clinic, but empty of everything except a half-undone roll of bandage in the middle of the floor. Feynriel bent down and set his fingers to it, and then it was gone. He rubbed his thumb over his fingertips for a moment, a slight smile on his face, and Fenris had the sudden thought that the mage perhaps felt more from the dream-objects than he did; that it was possible Feynriel drew some impression from them, of the thought or memory they represented.

Then that room faded away, and they were in yet another place, a curve of sandy bay. They quartered the sand for some time before a sparkle of light caught Fenris' eye, and he bent down to rake a fine chain out of the sand, an amulet of Tevinter style suspended from it. "I remember this," he said, as he held it out to Feynriel. "Hawke gave it to him."

He looked around the bit of barren coastline for a moment. "I wonder how it came to be here."

Feynriel shrugged. "Someone else who saw and remembered it, for whatever reason, I think. Or something similar to it. Some of the dreams we will end up in will be of people who actually saw Anders,some who may have merely glimpsed him in passing, and some who known him well. Others will just be places where the shape the object occupies is close to what is in their dreams anyway, where it is just random chance that we find a part of him there."

Fenris looked at him curiously. "And will you know, if we're in the dream of someone who knew him well?"

Feynriel shrugged. "Possibly. They might hold several fragments of him, or there may be other signs – we might see earlier versions of him, in other people's dreams, though they are unlikely to be any real part of him. No more than my dreams of my mother contain any real part of _her_. It is just a shape, a phantom, that the Fade conjures to fill the space they occupy in our dreams."

He paused then, a thoughtful look on his face, brow wrinkling slightly. "I should warn you... we may see the dreamers themselves, in some dreams. I am keeping us invisible to the dreamers, so that we do not disturb their dreams or enter their memories; if you see anything that seems like another person, avoid it. It is either such a dreamer, or one of the inhabitants of the Fade. Demons, spirits, other beings... all should be avoided."

"Other beings?" Fenris asked curiously.

"Sometimes people become lost in the Fade; avoiding the temptation of demons, avoiding raising the ire of any of the spirits, but unable to find their way back to their body. As long as the body remains alive they continue to roam here. Most fade away once their body dies, but some persist. Have you never seen someone who was healthy in body, but who never woke, following some injury? Often, they are here."

Fenris nodded, remembering a dockworker that had been brought to Anders' clinic after he'd been clipped in the head by a crate as a gantry swung to lower it to the docks. Anders had healed him, but the man had not woken again; the healer had kept him alive for almost two weeks, before the man died finally in the night, for no reason the healer could identify. Perhaps he'd become one of the lost that Feynriel spoke of. The thought made him shiver a little; a dream for one night could be a pleasant thing, but to be trapped here for whatever remained of his life, and even beyond? Not a fate he would wish on anyone.

They moved on again. Sometimes the locations they found themselves in bore some resemblance to places they had known; sometimes they did not. They found more bits and pieces of Anders, scattered in dreams in many shapes; more rolls of bandages, more feathers – not just grey, but black, the quills sometimes touched with gilding, and feathers iridescent as a magpie's wing, and ones the grey-and-white of a seagull's feathers – and things that they only found one of, like a tattered scarf of ugly grey-brown wool lying forgotten on a window sill in a long hallway, a small round bell shaped of tin on the floor under a half-made bed, the bedraggled and stained teal mantle from his robes dropped by the side of a road crossing a seemingly endless plain of grass.

Feynriel paused when they found the scarf, holding it draped over one hand, the other hand touching it gently, as if it was some fragile, delicate thing. "Whomever remembers this once cared very much for him," he said quietly, and then closed his hands on it, and sent it back to the mage.

* * *

They returned to Anders and Justice before waking. The mage was outside the barn now, still a boy, doing something that looked as if he was feeding small barnyard animals, though the animals themself were so barely sketched-in that it was impossible to tell what they were. Piglets, maybe, or fowl. Something of that size.

Justice gave Feynriel a cross-armed bow as they approached. "I could feel it when parts of him returned," the spirit told them. "You have done good work this night, though I suspect it will be several more before you have restored him. I thank you."

Feynriel nodded, and studied Anders briefly. Fenris could see no apparent change in him, but Feynriel looked satisfied and pleased about whatever he could see.

They woke, the morning sun lighting their bedroom.

"I am surprised to feel so well-rested," Fenris told Feynriel. "We had such a busy night."

Feynriel grinned. "Dreams are a very restful part of sleep; you actually slept very soundly last night, for all the running around we were doing elsewhere."

Fenris nodded, then looked questioningly at the mage. "I could not see any change in Anders; have we truly made any real difference yet?"

"Yes, we have. And in more than just him."

"What?"

"Did you not notice? The spirit – the upper part of his thighs were unchanging armour again. It is only from a little over mid-thigh down that he is still changeable."

"No... I did not notice," Fenris admitted, and frowned. "What does it mean?"

"I suspect that Justice was still at least partially merged with Anders when the mage's mind was fractured. The bits we are finding must contain some lost part of him, as well."

"So we are actually healing both?" Fenris asked, frowning.

"Yes... and I take it as a good sign. I wonder how much of his uncanny difference from other spirits is caused by some part of Anders, still merged into him. As he becomes more his correct self, I think whatever he holds yet of Anders will return to the mage, and in the end... well, in the end it is possible he will be just another spirit of the Fade again, the changes that happened to him in the real world all or mostly reversed."

They went to the cellars and visited Anders again later that day. He seemed only very little changed from how he'd been the day before, and yet... there _was_ change. He'd acted like something little removed from being an animal before. Now he sat quietly, not snatching at the food they offered to him and either wolfing it down or hording it, but taking it carefully and eating it neatly. He stopped once, and stared at his own half-lifted hand, studying it and the wedge of apple he held for some time, before finally relaxing again and slowly finishing the piece of fruit.


	19. Chapter 19

More bandages, scraps of cloth, lengths of leather thong, of rough twine, of silken cord. Feathers, endless feathers, enough to make several entire coats of them Fenris sometimes thought. Mage staffs, too, standing leaning in dusty corners, dropped on the filth-flecked stones of a winding back alley, hanging in pride-of-place over a richly carved marble mantle, broken in pieces and stuffed into a wood pile.

Books, too, from great leather- or metal-bound tomes with locks holding them shut to the small cheaply-bound pamphlets that street hawkers sold. Anders' manifesto, in many forms, from single much-creased and well-handled sheets to the entire thick stack of pages, bound in twine. Robes both fine and worn, clean and new-made, stained and torn, hanging neatly on a hook, folded away in a trunk with herbs to keep away the moth, reduced to use as a cleaning rag. A thin, stained blanket, so coarsely woven it seemed like burlap, in someone else's dream of cells. A silvered metal belt buckle lying on a tray of discarded odds and ends of metalwork in a shop so crowded with things it took them the entire night to find that one item that was Anders, Feynriel in the end reduced to carefully touching everything in reach until he found it.

They learned tricks, over time; Fenris' wisps could usually narrow the area of their search to a smaller compass, if he hummed along with them and thought of Anders once they were in the right vicinity. The five of them would dart around, exploring the area of the dream far quicker than either man could, and eventually settle in some area of it, usually within eyesight of whatever object it was they were seeking. Useful, in the dreams that involved large landscapes, though of only limited help in the more crowded settings.

The edge of unchanging solidity slowly worked its way further down Justice's legs; Anders, when they visited him, seemed more sane, more human. He was watching them now, listening to them speak, studying their faces sometimes. Still without recognition, without any effort to communicate with them himself, but there was something beginning to go on in his head; occasional times when there was sense in his eyes, when it seemed as if he might open his mouth and speak.

It made Fenris sadder, if anything, those flashes of seeming lucidity; even if Anders wished to speak, he could not, not any more. He remembered well all the discussions and arguments he'd taken part in or been witness to around Anders. The man's words had been as much part of his defences and means of attack as his staff and magic; biting words, sharp words, words meant to provoke, to attack, to invite discourse, to change minds. Words to deflect attention, or draw it, joking words, bitter words, words spoken in pain, in anger, in sorrow, in comfort. That clever tongue was gone now, and unlike his wits, could never return.

* * *

Feynriel froze as soon as they entered the dream, holding up one hand in warning. Fenris froze as well, though for different reasons; he recognized this place. How could he not, after having spent so many evenings here, sitting around the long table and eating, drinking, talking, playing cards.

The room was extraordinarily detailed, far more so then any other dream they had yet entered; everything as clearly imagined in the dream as if they were in the actual room, not a scuff or scratch, a crack in the stone or swirl of wood-grain out of place.

"Be careful," Feynriel said, voice barely above a whisper. "Whomever dreams this place... it is very important to them. A treasured place, held close in their heart. And they are near; very near."

"I recognize this place," Fenris said, keeping his own voice equally low. "Varric's rooms, above the Hanged Man."

"Varric?"

"Varric Tethras – a dwarf."

Feynriel frowned slightly, and shook his head. "Not his dream, then – dwarves have their own place, not the Fade. Perhaps someone who knew him well, instead. Touch nothing; look around and see if there's anything that seems particularly to remind you of Anders."

Fenris nodded, and the two began slowly exploring the room, carefully skirting the long table, moving with caution so as not to even accidentally brush up against the furniture, then into the more open part of the room, between the table and the curtained alcove that served as bedroom.

Fenris froze a second time, as he saw there was someone on the bed. It seemed curiously inevitable that he recognized that slender form, dressed not in her mail and green tabard but in a short gown of some soft cream-coloured fabric that clung to her curves. "Merrill," he whispered, identifying her to Feynriel. "Be cautious – she is a blood mage."

Feynriel froze as well, studying her carefully from where they stood, head tilted to one side, chewing on his bottom lip, then relaxed fractionally and moved closer. "_Was_ a blood mage," he corrected softly. "She has no demon now, though I can see the signs of where one was feeding on her, before."

He led the way into the small bedroom. Merrill took no notice of them; her eyes were shut, as if sleeping, though as they drew closer Fenris could see that one of her hands was stroking the coverlet on the bed, exploring the texture of its surface. And on the bed behind her, one of several pillows stacked up against the head of the bed – a small one, faded and stained, the fabric darkened with age, with an embroidered surface.

"There," Fenris whispered, and pointed. "That pillow – I remember it. Anders tried to give it to Varric, just before the end. Asked him to keep it safe for him; it shouldn't be _here_ – Varric refused it."

Feynriel smiled and shrugged. "She must think it belongs here anyway. Or something like it," he added, and edged around to the far side of the bed, leaning carefully over to touch it.

As it vanished, Merrill suddenly stirred and sat up, looking around with wide, frightened eyes. "Who's there?" she called out, the details of everything around them suddenly beginning to smudge and smear. Feynriel grabbed Fenris' arm, and hurriedly took them elsewhere.

"What happened?" Fenris asked, once he'd caught his breath, warily eyeing the stagnant marshlands that surrounded them now.

"We disturbed her dream, and she woke up," Feynriel explained. "I doubt she ever saw us; just knew something was in her dream that was out-of-place." He looked around, and grimaced. "Well... back to work."

* * *

There were other dreams where they saw the dreamer, but never again were they noticed, nor did either of them recognize the people whose dream it was.

A half-starved street waif, gaunt and hard-eyed. Boy or girl could not be told, the child being still young enough to have that androgynous shape that might be either. It had a nest hidden away in a place like an old warehouse, and among the folds of the blankets, a silver coin. Fenris wondered about that; was it something the waif had stolen from Anders? Or been given? Given, perhaps, a memory to be treasured, as Merrill treasured her memories of Varric's rooms.

A room walled and floored in stone, with a ceiling so high it could not be seen, the outer wall oddly curved. A chess table sat in one corner, ignored by the phantom-shapes that drifted through the room. One of the few places they found more than one piece of Anders; he was two of the chess pieces, and a mouse-like blob moving along the floor nearby. Feynriel laughed after he'd caught it, and held it up for Fenris to see before sending it back; no mouse, but something rather like an armoured man, a templar reduced to mouse-size.

A one-room cottage, such as any peasant farmer might live in, an old white-haired woman stirring at a pot over the fire. On a shelf over a narrow bed in one corner, a simple toy roughly whittled out of wood, one leg cracked off. It might have been a horse, or a cat – something with four legs and a tail, anyway. Perhaps even a cow, though the tail seemed too thick for that.

Not all dreams were as peaceful; they found themselves in tunnels underground again, lit by glowing red light from something seething along the edges of the wide floor. The place seemed full of menace, nightmarish, eyes watching out of ever shadows, and movement just on the edge of vision. An ominous place. The Deep Roads, they decided later; and again, not dreamed by any dwarf, so most likely a Grey Warden, or some other who'd had reason to venture into those dark and dangerous places. The memory there was huge in form, in a great cavernous crossroads; a golem, Feynriel said, though he'd never heard of one so gigantic. It faded as quickly and easily as any other memory once he touched it.

And a darker place yet, the tunnels and cells they had first found Anders in, but with different things remembered. Crueler things. Fenris had to clench his hands into fists to stop himself from lashing out at the person whose dream that was; a dream of past cruelties. Feynriel's face was equally grim, as he leaned over to touch shaking fingertips to a blood-daubed whip. "If it helps any, whomever dreams this is mad; lyrium poisoning. I doubt he has much longer to live."

Fenris nodded once, grimly. "It helps a little, yes, but... not enough."


	20. Chapter 20

That last night, Feynriel did not send things back as they found them, but gathered them instead, his arms filling with a collection of bits and pieces, even the largest items they found somehow shrinking to fit easily within his grasp. A small book bound in worn green leather, a glass vial filled with some dark substance, a handful of assorted feather, a purring orange cat missing an eye, that side of its face seamed with scars, its ear torn to shreds. Torn pants, a wilting flower in a rough clay pot, a bundle of dried herbs, an empty potion vial, a dark water-polished pebble with a streak of some lighter stone bisecting it, other odds and ends.

Eventually Feynriel stilled, a listening look on his face. He sighed. "Whatever is left, whatever is still missing, is too small for the wisps to find."

They travelled to where Anders and Justice were that night. A dream of a hilltop on the edge of a forested area, with a view of rolling grasslands, cloud-shadows drifting over them. Anders was sitting on the ground looking out over the plain, his arms wrapped around lifted knees. Justice stood behind him, hands resting on the crosspiece of a massive sword set point-down before him, only his feet still shifting through changes, otherwise solid and unchanging from the ankles on up.

It was immediately obvious that Anders was changed; he turned and looked at them as they approached, face calm, yet clearly aware of their presence there in his dream. He studied their faces intently.

"Fenris," he said, and rose to his feet. A shock to the elf, who hadn't expected him to be able to speak even here, in dreams.

"Anders," Fenris responded.

A slight smile lifted Anders' lips. "Not 'mage'?"

"No. Unless you actually prefer that form of address."

He grinned, then looked at Feynriel. "I think those are mine," he said, nodding at the collection of oddments in the young mage's arms. "May I have them back?"

There was such a note of longing in his voice as he asked that it brought a lump to Fenris' own throat. And made him think of his own long-lost memories; there was a time he would have given anything to remember his own past. Before he'd learned enough of it to come to peace with the idea of never knowing; that forgetting might sometimes be a mercy. He still sometimes half-wished he could remember growing up, but the few strayed memories that had returned after he'd killed Hadriana, met Varania, killed Danarius... they were enough. He wondered, for a moment, if his own lost memories might be here too, scattered among other people's dreams. Varania's, perhaps, wherever she had wandered to after leaving Kirkwall.

He felt no longing to seek them out, to go on a second dream quest. Let his past remain forgotten; it could no longer hurt him. The people still alive who remembered any of it were likely very few.

"Here," Feynriel said, and tossed the armful of things at Anders. They _changed_ as they flew toward him, vanishing away into streaks of colour that swirled around him and soaked into him.

Anders straightened, afterwards, and took a deep breath, a brief smile crossing his face. "Thank you," he said, then turned to look at Justice.

They studied each other silently for a long moment, the mage and the spirit. There was still a fluttering motion around the soles of the spirit's feet, some uncertainly about his form there. Then he lifted the sword he held, setting its point down again off to one side, and dragged the sharp point of it across the space between them. The fluttering stopped.

"I am free once more," Justice said, voice calm and almost as emotionless as that of a tranquil. "I am myself."

Anders smiled. "As much as you can be."

Justice's head tipped in a nod. "As are you. As much as you can be."

"Do you regret your time in the real world?" Anders asked, head tipping to one side.

There was a pause before the spirit answered. "No. What memories I can hold of the things I saw there, I will treasure, as much as I am able to. There is so much beauty in that place, yet you are all so blind to so much of it..."

Anders smiled, then held out one hand, palm up. Something took form there; a dried leaf skeleton, thin and fragile, a pebble of rough granite, a broken-off length of twig not even as long as his smallest finger.. "Take this," he said. "I remember how beautiful they looked, the first things I saw through your eyes and not just my own. I would share the memory with you, so that neither of us forgets."

The spirit hesitated, then reached out. The dried leaf spun up toward its hand, glowing brightly for a moment, then vanished, the pebble and twig following in turn.

"Thank you," Justice said gravely. He and the mage stood there for a long while, just staring at each other, then Justice turned to look at Fenris and Feynriel. "My thanks for your help. Bring Anders to Hawke; he will know what to do so that I may fulfil my promise to you and heal her as well."

He vanished, fading away. Anders turned and looked at them, and smiled again, a warm, kindly smile. "I thank you both as well. I will see you once we have all woken," he said, then turned away, walking down the hill a little ways before he stopped, and just stood, looking out over the rolling grasslands, some unfelt wind toying with the ends of his hair, blowing it back from his face.

* * *

He was waiting for them in the darkness at the foot of the last set of stairs, no longer crouched down but standing upright, the blanket not clutched around him to hide him, but wrapped neatly around him to keep him warm. His eyes saw them, recognized them. He shook greasy, lank hair back, and smiled tiredly at them, a hint of the warmth they had seen in his dreams still there.

"Anders," Fenris said; greeting and acknowledgement.

Anders nodded his head at him, then look questioningly toward Feynriel.

"This is Feynriel," Fenris explained to him. "Hawke saved him more than once, back in Kirkwall. You may remember her stories of him – the _somniari_."

Anders eyes brightened, and he nodded agreement, studying the mage with obvious interest for a moment, then turned back to Fenris. He plucked at the faded, filthy clothes he wore, and made a face. "'Af," he said, stub of tongue visible for a moment as he attempted speech, the lack just as shocking now as it had been the first time Fenris had seen it, and realized what had been done to him.

"A bath?" Fenris asked. Anders nodded enthusiastically.

They led him upstairs. He balked for a moment at the door to the kitchen, eyes widening in fear at the noise and bustle.

"It's all right," Fenris told him quietly, reaching out to touch his arm in reassurance.

Anders snorted softly, and darted Fenris a sideways look, then set his jaw, straightening up, and allowed Fenris and Feynriel to guide him out into the room. A hush fell as the servants caught sight of him.

"Where are you taking him?" one asked suspiciously, a lanky spotty-faced scullion that Fenris knew was one of the people that saw to it that food was brought down regularly for the mage; he'd been too young to fear the mage when he'd first retreated to the cellars, and had never grown frightened of him after.

"He's better; we're taking him upstairs so he can bathe and change," he explained.

"Better?" One of the cooks, a motherly-looking woman asked, and moved a few steps closer, peering intently at him. Anders met her gaze, and smiled shyly, nodding at her. A delighted smile lighted her face. "Oh, he is!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together in front of her. "Will you be wanting breakfast?" she asked hopefully, looking back and forth between the three of them.

"Please," Fenris agreed, gravely. "We're bringing him up to my rooms; a tray for three would be much appreciated. And we'll need clothes for him..."

"I'll send someone to let the housekeeper know about the clothes," one of the head cooks intervened. "Come, back to work everyone, breakfast won't make it to the tables if we don't finish cooking it!" He ordered, waving at everyone. "You," he ordered the scullion, "Put together a tray and bring it upstairs for the gentlemen."

Everyone hurried back to work, though several of those they passed by as they continued across the room paused to smile, to say a word or two about how pleased they were to see him recovered, one scullion even blushing and handing a sweet pastry to Anders before darting back to her own work. Anders' eyes were glistening with unshed tears by the time they reached the door out, touched by the concern they'd all shown toward him.

They took him up the servant's stairs, rather then parading him through the more public areas of the castle, and soon had him in Fenris' quarters, and a bath drawn. The tray arrived a few minutes after Anders had vanished into the bathing chamber, carried by the grinning scullion. "He's really better?" he asked. "Won't be living down in the cellar no more?"

"Yes, he's really better," Fenris assured him. "I thank you, and everyone else who has cared for him while he was ill; I'll make sure he's aware of all the care you gave him."

The scullion flushed, looking pleased, and bowed repeatedly before hurrying off back downstairs to the kitchen. The housekeeper herself arrived a little later, wanting to confirm the word she'd had that 'the hermit' was better, and after asking a few questions to be sure of just how tall and broad he was, hurried off again. A housemaid arrived some little time later, with several changes of clothing – just simple clothing such as the servants themselves wore, of plain cloth and simply made – and told them better clothing than that could be found for him as well, if needed, but would require more time and likely a proper fitting.

"This will do for now," Fenris assured her.

A second servant arrived just after she'd left, with something neither of them had though to ask for; a comb, scissors, and a shaving kit. He was a barber, he explained, and it was up to them whether he applied his skills, or one of them used the implements.

Anders, when told of the barber's presence, was quite happy to come out of the bathing chamber swathed in towels, and take a seat while the man combed out and trimmed his now-clean hair. After questioning about whether or not Anders wished to keep any of the beard, answered by nods and shakes of the head, the barber took scissors to it to crop off as much as he could, then plied his wicked-looking razor, scraping Anders' cheeks and chin and upper lip smooth. Anders ran a hand across his smooth-shaven chin afterwards, beaming and nodding in thanks at the man. Fenris made sure to tip him generously as he saw him out afterwards.

The mage looked an entirely new man as he joined them for breakfast, clean, neatly barbered, and dressed in his new clothes, though still unhealthily pale and rather too thin. He didn't bother trying to use fork and knife; his twisted, misshapen hands would clearly find them near-impossible to handle. Instead he ate with his fingers, sticking to things on the tray that could be eaten that way; pastries, some browned sausages, whole boiled eggs. He ate hungrily, easily as much as the other two ate in combination. It wasn't until he'd finished, and had wiped his greasy fingers clean again, that he tried for further communication with them.

He looked back and forth between then, then pointed at Feynriel and made a puzzled face. "Whu 'eh?"

That was clear enough, in combination with the pantomime. "Why is Feynriel here?" Fenris asked, to be sure. Anders nodded.

"It's a long story," he warned him, and then told it, Feynriel chiming in in places with his side of events. They were as far along as Fenris being healed and the two having left Kirkwall headed north toward the Vimmark mountains when there was another knock at the door.

Sebastian, this time. "Is it true... is he healed?" he asked anxiously, as soon as the door opened.

"It is," Fenris said, and stepped back, gesturing for him to enter, then closing the door.

Anders rose abruptly to his feet as soon as he saw who had joined them, his body tensing, hands rising a little as if he was preparing to cast a spell.

In everything that had happened, Fenris suddenly remembered, they had not yet told Anders where he was, or who had seen that he was looked after for all these years.


	21. Chapter 21

Feynriel was still looking back and forth between Anders and Sebastian in surprise at the other mage's reaction as Fenris reacted to Anders' pose, lighting up his brands and quickly stepping between the two, spreading out his arms. "No! He's a friend! You're in Starkhaven, Anders – you have been for years, since he and I found you and Hawke."

Anders froze, his eyes flicking back and forth between Fenris and Sebastian, then slowly straightened up again, lowering his hands. Finally he blew out loudly through his nose, jaw unclenching, and nodded warily in Sebastian's direction. Fenris let his brands subside.

"My apologies, I should have thought before just barging in like this; I have had years to get used to the idea of you being here, while I suppose for you this is the first you can really remember of Starkhaven," Sebastian said carefully, moving forward to stand beside Fenris. "May I join you?"

Anders nodded slowly, and resumed his seat. Fenris and Sebastian walked over to take seats at the table as well. The mage and the prince studied each other wordlessly for a couple of minutes.

Finally Sebastian spoke. "You are aware of what my hope is? That you will be able to heal Hawke?"

Anders nodded, then looked at Fenris.

"Justice said that we need to bring Anders to Hawke, and that he will know what to do so that Justice can help heal her. We thought to allow him to clean up and eat first, and were telling him why Feynriel was here just before you arrived," the elf explained.

Sebastian looked hopeful. "It can be done, then? You can restore Hawke to what she was before?"

Anders nodded slowly, lifting one hand and rocking it side-to-side a little.

"Not quite to what she was before?" Feynriel guessed.

Anders nodded again. He opened his mouth as if about to speak, then made a frustrated sound, and looked around. He held out his hand, fingers bending slightly, and shook it slightly, moving it to the side as he did.

Fenris and Feynriel gave equally puzzled frowns; Sebastian looked blank. Anders made another frustrated sound, and repeated the movement, the shaking motion more emphatic.

"Ah! You want to write?" Sebastian suddenly asked, an enlightened expression crossing his face. Anders nodded vigorously.

Fenris rose, and went to a desk at one side of the room, returning with parchment, a pen, and a bottle of ink. He opened the ink himself, doubtful that Anders' mangled hands could manage the motion.

It took Anders several tries to find a grip in which he could manage to even hold the pen, and he was making increasingly frustrated noises by the time he'd managed to dip it, drop it, pick it up again, tap off the excess ink, and bring it over to the paper. He braced his wrist with the other hand, hissing through his teeth like an aggravated cat as he laboriously dragged the tip over the paper, with much spattering of ink, the letters large and uneven.

Feynriel quietly rose, and stepped around behind him, to where he could see what the mage was trying to write. "She will be different," he read out. "Emotions over... overwhelming? Need quiet at first. Me and one."

His letters were large enough that even that had been enough to fill the sheet. He looked around at them.

Sebastian nodded. "Whatever she needs, I will see she has it," he said. "Quiet, solitude, anything."

"Me and one?" Fenris asked.

"I think he means that when he restores her, there should be as few people around as possible. Himself and one other?"

Anders nodded.

"Who would you like there? Myself? Fenris? Feynriel? Someone else?" Sebastian asked.

Anders looked at Sebastian and Fenris each in turn, then shook his head and tapped a word on the page before him.

"Emotions," Feynriel murmured, then glanced at the other two men. "She knows you both well; it would raise a lot of emotions, seeing you."

Anders nodded to the two of them, then turned in his seat and pointed back and forth between Feynriel and himself.

"Well, that's pretty clear," Sebastian said, sounding regretful. "All right. Though I hope you will not mind if Fenris and I wait outside while you heal her. If she wants to see us, afterwards..." he stopped, voice breaking on the words, eyes blinking furiously. His voice was hoarse when he continued, forcing the words out. "If she will see us, I would want to be nearby."

Anders nodded, for the first time a warmer expression on his face as he looked back at Sebastian.

"When... when can you do it?" Sebastian asked.

Anders rose to his feet, and looked toward the door.

"Now," Fenris said, and smiled as he stood as well.

* * *

Feynriel closed the door behind them, and turned to watch Anders. The mage was standing absolutely motionless, staring at the seated women. It reminded Feynriel of the way Fenris had stood, when they'd visited Hawke so many days ago. She was embroidering again, the skeins of wool around her of different colours than she'd been using when he was last here.

She became aware of them after a while, and looked up, face blank, the mark of the tranquil brand standing out dark against her skin. Anders made a sound; a broken sob; his hand and shoulders were trembling.

And then he moved, walking slowly across the floor to her. "Marion," he said, his voice cracking with strain.

"Anders," she answered, voice calm and empty.

He dropped to one knee before her, reaching out to touch the sides of her face lightly with his fingertips. She reacted not at all, merely sitting still and looking back at him. After a while Anders moved again, lifting one hand and cupping it over the brand on her forehead.

"Marian," he said again, a second time, louder. A faint glow sprang up around his hand.

She stiffened and gasped loudly. Blue fire washed over her eyes, and cracks opened in her skin, blue Fade-light boiling out of them. Feynriel froze, horrified; he'd never seen the like. For a moment he thought to run forward, to drag the mage away from her, convinced it was some evil magic that was being cast.

Her eyes met his for a moment, over Anders shoulder. "My promise is fulfilled," she said, in a voice not her own; the spirit Justice, he realized, his first step forward freezing half-taken. "She is restored."

The blue glow faded, the cracks vanishing without any sign of ever having been there. Hawke remained as she was, staring down at Anders' face, every muscle tense. Then she whimpered, and bit her lip, eyes filling with sudden tears.

"_Anders!?_" she asked, her own voice breaking, and then lunged forward, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and crying heartbrokenly.

* * *

It took most of an hour before Hawke was able to stop breaking out into tears every time she tried to talk, to question them. Finally she calmed, and sat there on the windowsill, leaning against Anders and holding tightly to his hand with one of her own, sniffling a little as Feynriel, seated cross-legged on the floor before her, told her everything he knew about how she had come to be here, and healed.

"I remember the being here," she said, voice ragged. "I made things," she said, and gestured at the room around them. "I made a lot of pillows," she continued, in a tone of disbelief, and then broke out laughing, laughter mixed with tears. Anders put one arm around her, and hugged her while she wept again on his shoulder, the cloth of his shirt already well-dampened from previous outbursts.

When she lifted her head she peered closely at his face. "Oh my poor dear... your poor head," she said, reaching out to touch fingertips to the many brands marking his forehead. "What did they _do_ to you!"

He shrugged one shoulder, and smiled crookedly. She sniffled again, and touched his closed lips; he'd shown her, already, why he did not try to answer her questions himself.

"Is that not anything you can do to heal it?" she asked.

He shook his head. She sighed, then hugged him tightly. "Then we will have to learn to hear you as you now speak."

She wiped at her eyes, and straightened up, then looked around the room. "I should see Sebastian now, I think," she said. "Is he near?"

Feynriel smiled. "He and Fenris are both waiting outside," he told her.

She nodded, blinking back tears again. "Just Sebastian, please," she asked, and smiled tremulously. "Alone, I think."

Anders nodded, and hugged her around the shoulders before rising to his feet. She squeezed his hand tightly before finally releasing it. "We will talk later," she told him, looking earnestly up at him. "There is so much I want to know."

He nodded, then walked over to the door. Feynriel dipped a bow toward Hawke, and followed him.

Fenris and Sebastian both jumped to their feet as Anders and Feynriel walked out into the hallway.

"She wants to see you," Feynriel told Sebastian.

The Prince's face lighted up, and he ran past the mage and into the room. He had already reached her by the time Feynriel turned out to pull the door closed behind him; reached her, and was on his knees with his head on her knees and arms wrapped around her, Hawke leaning forward over him, her arms wrapped around him in turn.


	22. Chapter 22

Fenris, Anders and Feynriel rose to their feet as Sebastian came into the room, Marian holding onto his arm. She had regained some degree of control over her emotions in the couple of days since she'd been healed, but her face and posture were both still far more expressive of her feelings than in the past; for Sebastian and Fenris it was a particular pleasure to see the wash of emotions across her face, after having seen her blankly expressionless for so many years.

She seemed nervous as she entered the room, uncertain – doubtless about her ability to be around so many people at once, even if it was just the five of them, all known to her now – and then smiled shyly at them, her smile turning to one of real pleasure as all three men smiled warmly back at her. She blushed and had to blink back tears as Sebastian showed her to a seat, the pair sitting down together. He kept her hand in his, his own face almost as expressive as hers; he smiled and flushed every time he looked at her, and his love for her shone from his eyes. A love matched by the look that passed over her own face when she turned to look at him before turning back to Fenris and the two mages.

"I am so thankful to all three of you," she said. "As is Sebastian. We both owe you so much... anything you need, if we can provide it, it is yours."

"We did not do it for any reward," Fenris said gravely.

Anders nodded agreement, smiling warmly at her.

Hawke flushed and had to pause, blinking back tears and squeezing Sebastian's hands. "Explain to me how it was done; why did the Rite fail with Anders? How did he heal _me?_"

"It was all Justice's fault, we think," Feynriel said, and smiled. "And a good dose of pure luck. I don't think it would have worked, if Anders hadn't somehow returned him to the Fade first." Anders snorted, expressing some degree o disagreement with the young mage, and the two exchanged a look.

"_What_ wouldn't have worked?" Sebastian asked, when Feynriel didn't continue right away.

"Well... the Rite of Tranquillity works by severing a mage's connection to the Fade. When the templars first went to use it on Anders, he tells me that he was terrified that it would kill Justice; he is a creature of the Fade, after all. Somehow, between Anders' fear and the actual use of the Rite, Justice ended up being pushed back into the Fade. But he was still connected to Anders; still at least partially merged with him. I think the Rite couldn't sever that connection, or that even if it did, Justice re-established it himself, reaching to him from the Fade. So the Rite failed; Anders was still connected. And every time the templars tried, it failed again, because Justice was keeping the connection open. But between all their attempts, and what they began doing to Anders physically... there was some combination of damage to his brain, and him being driven mad by the experience. Or as Justice put it, his mind crumbled and scattered, parts of him becoming lost in the Fade."

Fenris spoke up. "And then Feynriel and I healed his madness, by finding and restoring to him all his lost parts. Justice severed what remained of their connection after that; the two are no longer merged, and Justice is merely a spirit of the Fade again, where he belongs."

"Anders healed Hawke by... well, by doing something _here_ that allowed Justice to locate her from the Fade. And then Justice reached from the Fade to her, and that opened her connection to Fade again."

Hawke looked startled; Sebastian mildly surprised. "That's all it took?" she asked. "Reversing Tranquillity is that _easy?_"

Anders grinned, and nodded, looking pleased with himself.

Sebastian frowned. "This strikes me as potentially dangerous knowledge," he pointed out. Anders frowned in his direction, brow knitting angrily, but the prince quickly raised a hand, and continued. "I am not saying it is knowledge that should be silenced and ignored. But I cannot help but think that it is knowledge that should only be used with deliberate thought and some degree of caution."

Sebastian pursed his lips for a moment, frowning in thought, then continued. "There _are_ mages who have been rendered Tranquil in situations where the use of the Rite was entirely inappropriate; where it was used to punish overly capable mages, rather than to protect incapable ones from the possible consequences of their own powers. But consider; in the case of a mage who _requested_ to be made Tranquil, who was so terrified of their powers that they had no wish to learn proper control of them, would it be any kindness to restore their connection? And we have all seen how difficult it is for Marian to re-learn control of her emotions, yet she had superb control before being made Tranquil, and was only one for a handful of years, a small portion of her life. What would it be like, to have such a flood of emotions returned to someone who has spent most of their life without such? Who has little to no basis by which to control their fear, or anger, or other emotion? So... I am not saying, do not do this thing to other Tranquil. But I am suggesting you think long and hard, and are very careful in how and where and when you apply this power, if it is indeed a feat that you are able to repeat more than just this once."

Anders and Feynriel were both looking very thoughtful by the time he finished speaking. Feynriel looked to the older mage. Anders finally sighed, and nodded to Sebastian, clearly admitting he understood the point the man was making.

"Ask them," Marian said suddenly. "They are still thinking beings, even if they cannot feel. I could not feel, but I could certainly still think. I could even still... well, _enjoy_ isn't quite the right word. Nor 'like'. Appreciate, perhaps... yes, I could still _appreciate_ things, have preferences for certain flavours, or textures, for the feel of sunlight on my skin, the way my eyes were drawn to certain colours or patterns. I still thought about things, considered things, chose to do or not do things, it was just entirely without the sway of emotions; coldly logical choices, instead. I would suggest, even if you are convinced it would be a good and kind thing to restore any given Tranquil, explain to them first what the dangers of it are, and ask them to chose for themselves. It is the one freedom many of them still have, though they only rarely exercise it, I think... the freedom to chose. To say yes or no."

Anders nodded again, very slowly, looking thoughtful. Then leaned over and tapped Feynriel's arm, nodding toward Hawke.

"Oh... Anders wanted me to tell you that he had something else he wanted to try doing, if you'd permit it," Feynriel said.

"And what would that be?" Sebastian asked.

Anders smiled and pushed back the bangs that obscured his own forehead.

"Oh!" Marian exclaimed; the change was obvious. His brands had faded; not vanished entirely, though some were now only visible when the light hit their paler, shinier patches of skin just right, but far less obvious than they had been before. "Yes, please!" she exclaimed.

Anders smiled, letting his hair drop back into place, and rose, walking over to kneel beside her. She leaned forward, and he cupped his hand over her forehead. A glow surrounded his hand. He stayed like that for some time, the others all watching silently, and when he rose again, her brand was faded too; not gone entirely, but something that could easily be hidden with just a light application of cosmetics, if she wished to.

She rose and hurried over to peer into a mirror hung over the fireplace when he was done, and her eyes were full of tears when she turned back again. "Thank you, Anders... again, thank you so much."

He nodded, looking pleased.

"So what will you three be doing now?" Sebastian asked as Marian resumed her place by his side. "Feynriel, Anders, you are as welcome to stay here as Fenris has always been; for as long or as little time as you need. As long as I live, I want you to feel free to consider this place a home and a safe haven, for all the help you have been to myself and Marian."

Anders smiled and nodded, then looked to Fenris.

"The three of us have been discussing that," Fenris said. "I am still promised to Feynriel as a bodyguard, and you know I prefer travel over staying in any one place anyway. Anders would like to return to Ferelden, he has told us – to the Grey Wardens there, though he is not entirely sure yet if he wishes to stay with them, or even if they would accept him back if he did. But he would at least like to see again those there that he was friends with."

"Ferelden is about as far as it's possible to get from Tevinter, shy of somehow sailing off into the east or the distant north, and given there's Qunari in both directions – not to mention having to pass close to Tevinter, in the north – neither direction exactly appeals," Feynriel spoke up. "The Fereldans have become a lot friendlier to mages since the Blight, thanks to the Hero, so I'm planning to accompany Anders, and see if that's a place where I might be able to settle in."

Sebastian nodded. Marian spoke up. "You will at least stay for the wedding, won't you?" she asked.

Fenris smiled, and nodded. "As long as it is not too far-distant. Neither Feynriel nor I like being this close to Tevinter."

"It will be a very small and informal wedding," Sebastian spoke up, then looked at Marian, smiling and squeezing her hand again. "Not because I do not treasure Marian, nor feel proud of her, but because we both wish to make as little fuss as possible about the fact that I am marrying a mage. My people have had several years now to get used to the idea that I had no intention of marrying anyone but her. And even before you came I had already set underway the process to have two of the more capable of my cousins' children sent to me for fostering, with it being made clear that I would eventually name one of the two as my principle heir, and the other as secondary heir, until such time as the primary heir fathered children of his own. My people will have to be content with that, for now that she is herself again, I will have Marian as my wife, and no one but her may say me nay."

Marian smiled, and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. "And I've already told you yes."

Sebastian grinned briefly at her, then turned back to the three men. "Within two weeks, if all goes well. There are certain prerequisites I must meet before marrying, even for as simple a wedding as the two of us wish. Posting of the banns and so forth. If you can linger that long before you depart again, I know that both of us would want you all to attend; the wedding would not be happening, if not for you help."

The three exchanged looks, then Feynriel nodded. "I believe we can safely stay that long," he agreed. "We would have needed to stay a little while anyway, while Anders regains sufficient health to travel. He must grow used to being out in sunshine again, among other things, or chance becoming badly burned in travel."

Anders nodded, and patted at his eyes.

"He also finds sunlight rather blinding after so long in darkness," Fenris said. "And we will need to outfit him properly; changes of clothes, a pack, and so on."

Sebastian nodded. "Acquire whatever you need, all three of you, and have the bills sent to me. If you will not stay, than helping you to be as well-equipped as possible when you depart is the least I can do."

Fenris nodded agreement to that. They went in to lunch after that, and their conversation mainly revolved around what supplies the three men would need, and what route they planned to take.

"Not via Kirkwall," Fenris said. "It would not be politic with Anders as part of our party. I was thinking we should head east first, by riverboat on the Minanter, and then before Ansburg switch boats and go upriver, on that branch that comes in from the south. Towards Hercinia, on the coast; the river doesn't go all the way, of course, but an appreciable distance of it, leaving us a comparatively short hike over the coastal hills to reach it. Then take ship from there to either Amaranthine or Denerim."

"Would not Ostwick be closer to Amaranthine?" Sebastian asked.

"Yes, but then we'd have a much longer overland trip. We'd need to go overland from to Markham, and then travel through a pass over the mountains to reach Ostwick on the coast. By going further east we avoid the mountains altogether, as they come to an end between Markham and Hercinia, plus we can travel by boat a little further."

"Why not go even further east then, all the way down the Minanter to Wycome or Bastion?" Marian asked curiously.

Feynriel shook his head. "I stayed briefly in both on my way to Kirkwall, and if anyone from Tevinter does pursue me, there might still be people in either place now watching out for me, ones who have actually seen me and might recognize me if I return. I have hopes that since I never stopped in Hercinia, there is less likely to be any such watchers, and none who have anything but a verbal description of me."

"And we will be changing his appearance before we set out," Fenris added. "Dyeing his hair, for example. And cutting it."

Feynriel made a face. "I'm not looking forward to that. I'll need to bring a supply of dye along with me, to maintain the disguise while we travel. It wouldn't do to have one shade of hair and a second shade of roots. And I quite like my hair the length it is right now; I'm rather vain about it, you know," he said, and grinned.

Sebastian and Marian both smiled at that. Marian asked a question about Kirkwall, after that, and the rest of the meal was spent in Fenris bringing her up to date about everything he knew about what had become of her companions in the years since Kirkwall.


	23. Chapter 23

Fenris leaned against the wall, watching Marian embroider. "Why do you still do that?" he asked.

She glanced up at him and smiled, then shrugged, before turning her attention back to the embroidery stand in front of her. "It gives my hands something to do. And it's something I'm used to doing now, though I'm sure it would have shocked mother senseless to see me content with a needle in my hands. Now come, stop _looming_ so, and take a seat. Or go away. Your choice."

Fenris snorted, then grinned, and carried one of the chairs in the room closer to the window. He sat, then reached behind him and pulled out one of the cushions, examining it closely. "You do rather good work with a needle," he said.

Marian snorted. "I know. Terrible, isn't it?"

A brief silence fell. She looked up to find the elf studying her, a slight frown on his face. "What is it?" she asked.

Fenris sighed, then slouched into a more comfortable position in his seat. "You haven't used magic once since Anders restored you. Are you truly healed?"

She bit her lip, and looked away for a moment. "I am; I can cast spells again. I just... have no wish to," she said, then looked back to him. "It's not like I am Feynriel, or Anders, a person whose magic can heal and help people. Mine has only ever been good for hurting and killing. I almost wish I could give it up, other than by being made Tranquil again. I no longer want it; I don't want to use it. Oh, I suppose if there was some emergency where it was needed, I would use it again. But if I never cast another spell in my life, I think I will be happy with that, too. What has magic ever brought to me and my family that was not harmful, in the end?" she asked, voice grief-stricken. "I think of how careful we had to be all our lives in Ferelden. How Bethany died there without ever really _living_ first. How constrained her life would have been in Kirkwall, even if she hadn't been killed. How magic led to mother's death. How magic and its misuse was behind so many other deaths in Kirkwall. Oh, I'm not saying all of the mages were at fault; the chantry bears its share of fault for events there as well. But I would like to try living without using my magic, and see how that goes."

Fenris looked at her curiously. "You are changed by your time as a Tranquil, and more than I thought."

She smiled crookedly at him. "How could I not be? So many years of living without magic, and of being able to think without emotion swaying my decisions... besides, it will be easier for both Sebastian and myself if I am not seen to be an active mage."

"And you would give that up for him?" Fenris asked. "Everything that was once so important to you?"

"Yes. And not because he has asked it of me, because he hasn't, but because the things that are important to me have changed entirely. I've been the big hero, the Champion, the person whom everyone looked to and who did all the hard, nasty, dirty jobs that needed doing because no-one else would. I gave and gave of myself, and everything I valued was taken from me; family, friends and home. I want a quiet life now, Fenris. I want to spend the rest of my life here with the man I love, and help him to be the best man and the best ruler he can be. I want to grow old here, and help people, not by running around killing people any more, but by making things here better for everyone. Sebastian has ideas about that; good ideas. And none of them will be short-term fixes, or easy to bring about; we'll be lucky if all we manage to accomplish in whatever years remain to us is to set people here on the right track to a more just society. But I want to _try_. It will be a lifetime of work; not big showy things like I did in Kirkwall, or that Anders did, but quiet hard work and long slow changes that take years to have any appreciable results. And the only magic I need for any of that comes from my mind and my heart and my effort, not from the Fade."

"And if you should have children with Sebastian? What then?"

"That will not happen," Marian said, voice hardening for a moment. "I will allow myself to use enough magic to see that I never quicken again. Even one child is more than I ever wanted."

"Do you regret it now?" he asked. "Allowing the pregnancy to continue."

She smiled slightly, and shook her head. "No. I see how much Sebastian loves her, and I would not deny that to him; the chance to be a father, even if not to a child of his own. I am lucky, I suppose; I was frightened that I would look at her and hate her, knowing how it was that she came about. But I finally had Sebastian bring us together at supper last night, and I looked at her and I felt... nothing. I remember being pregnant with her; the feel of her moving in my belly. Giving birth to her, and the pain of it, and looking after her for a little while after she was first born. But there is no... no _connection_ there. No feelings of motherhood. But there is also no hate or regret, and I am glad for that. We may, in time, at least become friends, I think. We both love Sebastian, and that is a tie. And in some little ways, she is so much like Bethany at that age; I think I will be unable not to love that in her. I am glad she seems so far to be without magic; perhaps this Bethany will be able to have the sort of life that my Bethany was only ever able to dream of; a normal life."

Fenris smiled again. "As normal a life as being the next best thing to a princess can be, I suppose," he agreed.

Marian laughed. "There is that," she agreed, then smiled. "She's a sweet girl. I will be happy for that, and hope only the best for her future, whatever it comes to be." She took a few more stitches, then looked at Fenris again, who was busy examining another pillow. "And you, how are you doing? I must admit it seems strange to me that you will be willingly travelling with two mages. Especially when one of them is Anders."

Fenris smiled crookedly. "I suppose it must sound that way. But there was a certain mage I knew back in Kirkwall who taught me that not all mages were evil and power-hungry," he said, and smiled warmly at her. "And whatever hatred I once had for Anders died after Sebastian and I rescued the two of you. What was done to him, and to you... that was equally as cruel a thing as any magister I had ever known might do. So I came to realize that it is not the magic that made such men evil, but rather the evil that can exist in any man, mage or mundane, which made them turn their magic to such cruel purposes."

He stuffed the cushion back behind his back, frowning in thought. "I have travelled a lot in the years since Kirkwall, and met many people, and seen them do many things, from what I would describe as acts of astonishing kindness and great generosity to terrible, perverse cruelties. I have decided it is those who are cruel, evil, and capricious that I should reserve my hatred for. And that I should not care whether a man is a mage or a mundane, if only he or she strives to be kind, and generous of heart. But nor should I condemn the thousands who are some mix of both, because the person who is only one thing is rare. I have learned to try and judge each person I meet on their merits alone. Feynriel... is a good man. And Anders is as changed as you are, in different ways. I am not entirely sure that this quasi-friendship between us will last, but I am not minded to purposefully fracture it either."

Marian nodded agreement, smiling warmly at the elf. "I see I am not the only one who has changed greatly since Kirkwall."

Fenris smiled crookedly and nodded his head, conceding the point.

"So tell me more of how Anders was healed; Feynriel told me a little about it, that first day, but I am curious to hear a fuller explanation of it; of what it looked like from your point of view."

Fenris nodded, and spent the rest of the afternoon in telling her.


	24. Chapter 24

Fenris came to an abrupt stop in the door of his rooms, staring, then slowly walked forward. "What is that you are working on?" he asked, puzzled.

Feynriel looked up from what he was doing – whittling away at a large chunk of what appeared to be some sort of root vegetable – and grinned. "Something for Anders," he said, then put down his knife and held the piece of vegetable out to Anders. The mage took the lumpy thing in hand, and it was immediately obvious that Feynriel had been trying to carve it into a shape he could easily grip. Anders grunted and shook his head, reaching over with his left hand to tap at two of his right fingers. Feynriel leaned close to peer closely at where he'd indicated, then nodded, accepted it back, and carved a little more of it away.

Fenris watched in fascination as Anders nodded approval of it on the next trial, then held his hand a little above the surface of the table and made a motion in mid-air several times. As if he was writing, Fenris realized, just before Anders handed it back to Feynriel, tapping on a spot on its surface first. The younger mage nodded, and picked up something from nearby – a length of quill from a feather, Fenris saw, the vanes shorn off. A pen, he realized, seeing that – they were trying to make a pen that Anders could more easily hold.

He stood and watched with interest as they passed it back and forth a couple more times, Anders making more writing-motions with the thing and Feynriel then carefully shaping the end of the quill into a nib. The final tests involved ink and paper, and Anders made a pleased grunt and then grinned as he was able to write a few words with far better control than he'd had with a regular pen. The two of them fiddled with the angle and orientation of the nib a couple of times, getting their fingers well ink-daubed, before both were satisfied with it.

"That won't last very long, will it?" Fenris asked. "The vegetable will shrink as it dries. Or grow mold."

Feynriel grinned. "Which is why we're not keeping it. Sebastian arranged for me to be introduced to some of the castle's craftsmen recently, and I'm going to take this to them and have them make a more permanent version. Not sure out of what yet; I think wood or clay might be too heavy. Anyway, I should take this down to the workshop; I might be a while, doubtless we'll have to talk such things over before they can begin work," he said, then picked up a bit of cloth. He absently-mindedly rubbed his inky fingers on it before wrapping it around the crudely made pen, and then hurried off, the bundle in one hand.

Anders was frowning at his own ink-stained fingers. Fenris fetched him a cloth, which the mage accepted with a smile and a nod before wiping his fingers, which left them dry, at least, even if not particularly clean.

"You like Feynriel," Fenris observed, as he sat down near the mage.

Anders gave him a startled, wary look for a moment.

"I don't mean that way," Fenris said, and suspected he wasn't very successful in hiding the smirk that wanted to be on his face for a moment. "Just plain liking."

Anders sighed, and smiled crookedly, and nodded. "Epsh meh," he said. He didn't speak often, even when it was just the three of them around, but Fenris was already developing an ear for the mangled sounds he made when he did attempt speech. Speech as mangled as his hands, and as unlikely to ever improve significantly, though Anders was doing what he could to mend them. Even now, as they sat there, he was stretching and wiggling his fingers, flexing his misshapen palms through their limited range of motion, trying to work a little additional flexibility into scarred flesh and knotted tendons.

"He likes helping you," Fenris said. "I suspect you're the first mage he's met, apart from Hawke and Marethari, that he's been able to think of as a potential friend. And I'm not sure about Marethari; as a Dalish Keeper, I doubt she opened herself as much to the boy as she might have to someone who was of pure elf stock. He looks like a _shem_; most of the tribe likely treated him as such. They have little liking or tolerance for the mongrels."

Anders nodded, then looked at Fenris and raised an eyebrow high in question, a slight smirk playing around _his_ lips this time. He'd always had an expressive face; tongueless, he still managed to say or ask things without speaking more than a handful of words in any given day.

Fenris flushed, then laughed. "No, nor do I think of him that way either," he said sternly. Anders grinned. "Though I, too, have come to think of him as a friend."

Anders nodded understandingly.

It surprised Fenris sometimes, how comfortable the two of them had become with each other since Anders' recovery. Somewhere between Kirkwall and now, Anders seemed to have lost the white-hot rage that had seemed so core to him back then, the certainty that he was _right_ about the things he was passionate on. That Anders still believed in the cause of mage freedom Fenris had little doubt; that he was now far more willing to listen to and consider opposing viewpoints, that he was able to question and doubt his own motivations and desires, was equally apparent.

Fenris wondered how much of that was related to whatever parts of Anders had been lost forever in the Fade; how much due to whatever he could remember of his years of life since; how much due to the departure of Justice. How much, indeed, might be due to listening to Feynriel talk quite frankly and explicitly about the things he'd witnessed during his years in Tevinter. That last thought stung just slightly; that the healer was willing to listen to and consider things said by Feynriel that he'd refused to even listen properly to in the past when Fenris had talked about them himself. How much of that was because Feynriel was a fellow mage, and at least physically human, and how much due to the changes in Anders... well, Fenris could not judge. He hoped it was not such base reasons behind the mage's change.

Though he was greatly relieved that Anders _was_ changed; as much as his old dislike of the mage was now long-gone, he'd have been unhappy if Anders' first thoughts had been to return to the kind of life he'd led or to repeat the sort of actions he'd undertaken those last years in Kirkwall. It reassured him greatly that Anders wished to return to Ferelden instead; to possibly even return to being a Grey Warden. Apart from his crippled hands he was physically healthy, and regaining strength and stamina rapidly now that he was living a better lifestyle than his hermit-like retreat to the cellars had allowed. His magic was unaffected by such things as crooked fingers or a missing tongue; there was no reason that he could not still function as a Grey Warden mage, if he wished to. If they would accept him back, after his earlier desertion.

He wondered if Anders found it as strange, this tentative friendship between them. He glanced at the man, and found Anders studying him, head tilted a little to one side, and realized how long he'd been sitting here, lost in thought.

"Sorry... my thoughts wandered. Have you given much thought yet to what you need for our upcoming travels?"

Anders nodded, and slid a sheet of parchment over to Fenris. A list in Feynriel's neat hand-writing filled much of the page; he could only imagine how long it must have taken for the younger mage to quiz Anders and draw it up. He quickly read it over, nodding in agreement with what was listed there.

"Much of this we can obtain from stores here within the castle – the pack, potions, most of the clothing. Are you sure you don't want any fancier clothing? There's no need for you to dress like a farmer or a servant all the time."

Anders made a face, then sorted through a stack of parchments marked with the sprawling block letters that he currently found easiest to attempt. He tapped a finger on one page.

"Draw less attention," Fenris read aloud. "Well, I suppose that's true. Though I hope you're at least allowing Sebastian and Marian to dress you well for their wedding?"

Anders nodded resigned agreement to that. Then got an odd expression on his face, as of some sudden thought. After a moment he looked enquiringly at Fenris, then jabbed his finger repeatedly down at the floor, saying something that Fenris could not understand. Anders tried several times, even saying each word separately with a pause before the next, and apart from guessing correctly that the first sound was 'want', and that he was saying three words, Fenris could not understand him.

Anders sighed in resignation and drew parchment, ink and pen close, and with much fumbling scrawled a few words.

"Want thank servants... ah, the ones who helped look after you, you mean?" Fenris asked, which drew an enthusiastic nod from the man.

"What would you like to do? Just thank them? Give them money or some small gift? Something else?"

Anders frowned, then tapped the word 'thank' on his paper. He made a show of checking his belt and patting at his clothes as if looking for something; a purse, Fenris guessed, the mage pointing out he had no money to use for gifts, followed by a frustrated look and a shrug.

"You want to thank them, but aren't sure how, or with what."

A nod.

"I am sure Sebastian would be happy to help you reward them, if you would like to give them some more material gift. Most would be pleased just to know that you appreciate their help."

Anders wrinkled his nose, then sighed, and made a throwing-away gesture.

"You wish to think about it, and return to it later?

Another nod.

Feynriel returned just then, looking pleased with himself. "It will be a day or two; they're going to try making two or three pens, with different materials being used for the handle, to try and work out which is the most suitable in terms of weight and durability. Oh, and they'd already finished this," he added, before setting down a spoon on the table before Anders. A very odd spoon, carved of wood, its handle a wide hook shape instead of a narrow flat strip.

Anders stared at it for a moment, then tried picking it up. It took momentary help from Feynriel before he was holding it right, the hooked end of the handle curving up over the back of his hand, his thumb under the lower portion of it so that the spoon part stuck out to the side. The flattened hook, Fenris could see, steadied and supported the spoon enough that the mage didn't have to attempt closing his fingers around the handle. Anders made a few tentative motions with it, as if spooning up soup, then grinned happily at Feynriel and nodded. Clearly he wasn't going to be limited to finger-foods any longer, which would be useful when they were out on the road, things like pottages, stews and soups being easiest to make. Anders removed it, and carefully secreted it away in one of his belt pouches.

Feynriel noticed the list lying in front of Fenris, and that naturally enough led to a discussion of any items he or Fenris might also want to add to it. Their gear had been in good condition when they left Kirkwall, so there was little either of them actually needed, but they still managed to add another dozen or so items to the list before they all agreed that none of them could think of anything else to add to it.

Fenris marked which items he knew could be obtained here in the castle, and had Feynriel – who wrote both much faster and far more neatly than Fenris could – copy out a separate list of those items. "There's still plenty of time left in the day," Fenris said when he was done. "Why don't we go drop this list off with Sebastian's quartermaster, and then walk down to the market to make a start on obtaining the rest?"

Anders indicated he'd prefer to stay here rather than go out, and was already settled down in a window-seat with a book open in his lap by the time Fenris and Feynriel had gathered their purses and Fenris' sword, and were ready to set out.

It was a quite pleasant way to spend the afternoon, Fenris decided, this spending of Sebastian's money instead of his own. He'd done it before, of course – it was not the first time Sebastian had been generous with his thanks and friendship – but there was something particularly enjoyable about doing it in company. They spent a couple of hours working their way down their list, seeking out the things they wanted and arranging to have them – and the bills for them – sent up to the castle. They both endeavoured not to be greedy with the privilege, but they still ended up buying a few things that were not absolutely necessary for their trip – a blank journal and a fine dwarf-made metal-nibbed pen for Feynriel, as well as stout new boots in a particularly attractive leather, and a warm, water-proofed cloak. For Fenris, a couple of bottles of very good wine, and a large well-sealed tin of little spiced cookies that he loved that were a northern speciality.

As enjoyable as the day had been, Fenris found himself looking forward to moving on again; since leaving Kirkwall he'd discovered that he _liked_ travelling, even if not all of his experiences while engaged in doing so were necessarily good ones. Apart from when he'd been sick in Kirkwall and unable to travel, this stay in Starkhaven was the longest he'd remained in one place in years. He was glad it wasn't very many days left until the wedding, and that their plans called for them to set out within a day or two afterwards.

He smiled, thinking that this must be the feeling Varric had once described to him as "itchy feet".


	25. Chapter 25

The wedding was, as promised, both small and informal. It took place in a small chantry that was part of the castle itself, a place more for the private devotions of the royal family than for large celebrations. Those attending were few; a priest to marry the couple, a pair of noblemen and a merchant from the city as the official witnesses, and a handful of other guests, including Fenris, Anders, and Feynriel. They stood near the back, so as not to draw too much attention to themselves, Anders in particular being leery of the proximity of a priest.

It was a short ceremony, simply performed, no grand thing; the same sort of wedding ceremony as would have been performed for any commoner seeking marriage. The priest talked briefly, then Sebastian and Marian joined hands, and the priest bound their hands together with a length of ribbon, then censed the pair while chanting. A final few words, and the two each took hold of a loop of the complex knot holding the ribbon tied, and pulled. The ribbon slid smoothly apart; they smiled, and kissed, a very brief and dry kiss. And that was that.

Sebastian thanked those gathered for attending, Marian holding onto his arm and smiling warmly up at him while he spoke, then the group of them left the chapel. The two mages retreated to Fenris' room, feeling it too risky to attend the small reception that followed the ceremony. Fenris attended, and whispered their best wishes in Marian's ear under cover of kissing her cheek. She flushed prettily, looking pleased, after which he exchanged a forearm-clasp and a brief hug with Sebastian.

The meal was reasonably pleasant, but Fenris was still relieved when it was over and he, too, could retreat to his rooms. He found Anders and Feynriel still eating their own dinner, the same food as had been served at the reception, and joined them at the table, pouring a glass of wine for himself.

"Well... are both of you ready to depart tomorrow?" he asked. "If we don't leave then, it's another two days before the next riverboat is due to depart."

"I'm ready," Feynriel said. "Everything is packed, I just have a couple of things left out that I'll be using between now and tomorrow."

Anders nodded in agreement. They spent a quiet evening in Fenris' rooms, he and Feynriel discussing their planned route, Anders sitting back and listening intently, and sometimes nodding or shaking his head. They retired to bed early, all three wanting to be on their way at last.

* * *

As much as he cared for both Sebastian and Marian, and as many times as he had come to visit for some little while in Starkhaven – to the point that he did think of it, as much as any place now, as 'home' – it felt like a weight lifting off of his shoulders as the river carried their boat downstream and away from the city. He leaned on the aft rail a little way from the steersman, watching it recede out of sight as the river curved away to the north.

Anders stood nearby, watching the city as well. In his plain clothing and the wide-brimmed floppy hat that he wore pulled down low to hide his marked forehead he looked like some peasant farmer. Only his gnarled hands gave him away; the nails clean and neatly trimmed, the fingers still stained with ink from some writing he'd been doing before they left that morning. Not a farmer's hands. He turned away, after a couple of minutes, walking to the front of the ship to watch in the direction they were going instead. Fenris remained where he was, until Starkhaven could no longer be seen.

The riverboat had no cabins; passengers merely rented deck space, for however long they wished to travel. The three of them had picked out a spot aft of low cabin that the crew shared, out of the way of foot-traffic; they'd marked out the space with their gear, stacking it along the cabin wall. Feynriel was sitting there now, back braced against the wall, chewing on his lip as he scribbled away in his journal. Fenris walked over and sat down against the wall as well, enjoying the warm sunlight. Desk passage was not always this enjoyable; it could be downright miserable, in rainy weather. But right now it was pleasant to just sit quietly in the sun, and watch the crew at work.

It was a family-owned riverboat, as most of them were – a pair of brothers, one of their wives, a handful of the oldest children, a couple of other crew members who might be hired hands or might be some sort of relation to the rest. He had travelled the river enough times over the years to be known to a number of the families; he hadn't travelled with this particular set of them before, but they still knew of him.

"You went with my cousin Tomas and his wife two years ago, in the fall – upriver toward Nevarra City," the wife had told him when he was arranging passage for the three of them that morning. "Said you was right handy with that sword, the one time a crew of river-rats tried to board them in that wild stretch beyond Hasmal."

Fenris nodded. "I recall the trip. The wife, Mairi, she hit one of them over the head with her frying pan."

The woman grinned, a gap-toothed smile. "That she did. Killed him, too. We'll be glad to have you aboard, especially if there's any trouble."

Which there shouldn't be; problems on the river were usually rare, that western trip having been an exception. The Minanter carried much of the produce and freight in the Free Marches; the small countries and large city-states along it were therefor pretty ruthless when it came to eliminating those who tried to disrupt or prey on the river boat traffic.

Anders came back and joined the two of them after a while, apparently having had his fill of watching the landscape go by. He lay down, head propped up on his bedroll and pulled his hat down over his eyes. Within a surprisingly short time, faint whistling snores were emerging from under his hat. Fenris and Feynriel exchanged an amused look over his head.

"I believe I'll do the same," Feynriel said, and wiped his pen clean, then put away it, his ink, and his journal, and stretched out as well.

Fenris did not nap; he remained awake, watching the river.


	26. Chapter 26

They had fine weather the first few days of travel. Anders lost the last of his pallor, and began to tan a little. Feynriel managed to get a touch of sun-burn when fishing off the side of the boat the second day; the combination of sun from overhead and sunlight reflected off of the water could be quite nasty. He and Anders surreptitiously healed the worst of it, but his cheeks and nose still peeled badly. Fenris merely turned a slightly darker shade of caramel brown, well-acclimated to life spent largely outdoors as he already was.

The landscape slowly changed from the vineyard-covered hills and bluffs that surrounded Starkhaven, becoming rolling farmland and occasional small woodlots instead. There would, Fenris knew, be a stretch of real forest once they got far enough east, in the borderlands between Starkhaven, Ansburg and Markham. It was the only moderately dangerous section of the river between Starkhaven and the swamps at the river mouth, and not really all that bad, as that section of river was usually quite busy with traffic, and well-patrolled.

There was not much to do on board the boat; fish, to supplement their diet. Stay out of the way of the crew, unless one of them happened to be not overly busy, and in a talkative mood. The two mages spent a lot of time in either reading or writing. Fenris had a book or two packed away as well, but wasn't really in the mood to read. So he fished, he exercised a little to stay in shape to use his sword, he spent some time working on making a new tunic for himself, using fabric and thread he'd packed away for the purpose. Once the basic tunic was finished, he began ornamenting it, carefully sewing an intricate pattern of leaves and vines around the cuffs and neck opening.

"You do pretty work," the woman said one day, craning her head to see what he was doing as he worked near where she was seated, peeling potatoes to make a fish-and-potato stew. They'd get a share of it, having contributed most of the fish that was going into the pot. Or at least, Anders and Feynriel would; Fenris rather enjoyed fishing, but had no desire to actually eat fish, no matter how freshly-caught and well-seasoned. He planned to eat some of the travel rations from his own pack that night.

"Thank you," he answered. "I find it helps pass the time, if I have something to do with my hands."

She nodded understandingly. "Same. Though mostly I do just plain mending, not making from new, and never such pretty work as that. Can't stand fiddly work. Except knitting, I find that's something I can work on without getting too annoyed."

"I tried knitting once," Fenris said, and smiled at the memory. "Jacko of the Jack's Hart tried to teach me."

"Oh,_ him_," she said, and snorted, then smiled in amusement. "Worst luck on the river, that man. If there's a sandbar that's shifted, he'll find it. But he does knit a fine sweater, I'll admit that. Gets a lot of practice while run aground,_ I_say."

Fenris chuckled. "Considering we found two sandbars and a floating snag on that trip, I don't think I'll disagree. I could manage a little straight knitting by the end of the trip, but it didn't stay very straight; what was supposed to be an even square came out rather... hmm. Wiggly."

She laughed. "Had the same problem, starting out. It does get better, eventually. And the way my boys go through socks when we're on shore, it's a useful skill to have."

Fenris nodded. "Not something I ever worry about much, I must admit," he said, lifting one mostly-bare foot in illustration.

She grinned. "Few elves seem to. And that's these all peeled, so best I be getting them in the pot," she said, nodding farewell as she rose, and carried the bowl of peeled and cut up potatoes off to the sand-lined firebox at the front of the boat.

He finished the leaf he was working on, then returned to the aft of the ship, and put his work away in his pack, the sharp needle safely packed away in a little bone vial. Feynriel was whittling on something – it would be an animal of some kind eventually, by the shape of it – and Anders was frowning in concentration as he wrote something.

The pens Feynriel had had made in Starkhaven had proven a success; Anders was able to write much easier now, though he still stuck to plain block letters rather than attempting script. He'd left most of the pens back in Starkhaven, not wanting to carry all of them, taking along only his two favourites from among them, one carved of horn and one shaped out of leather and metal. The latter was cleverly made of two pieces of shaped, stiff leather, sealed together, and with the nib end able to unfasten from the body of it, with several spare nibs in differing widths stored inside. There'd also been a pen blown of coloured glass that Anders had loved at first sight, but as uncertain as his grip was, and as fragile as it was, he'd only used it once before putting it aside as an object to be admired, not used. It, too, had been left behind in Starkhaven.

Fenris sat down, watching the riverbanks for a while and then, when that palled, watching the two mages. Feynriel was frowning in concentration as he worked on some particularly fiddly bit of his carving, which was beginning to look like a wolf or a coyote, or perhap a fox - some slender dog-like creature with a finely pointed snout and a bushy brush of a tail, anyway. Anders had stopped writing and had his head tilted back, enjoying the sun as they passed along another stretch of the winding river where their position at the rear of the boat was in sunlight, not shadow. It wouldn't be fore much longer, Fenris thought - if he remembered correctly the river was going to curve back to the south again soon.

He heard a faint rumble, and rose to his feet, looking around; there was a dark bank if clouds off to the east, and even as he watched a thread-fine branch of lightning flickered between the clouds and the ground. It was a long, slow count until the sound finally reached them, attenuated by distance to a sound just barely audible over the sounds of the river and the boat itself.

"It looks like we may have a wet night of it," he said, frowning at the distant clouds and judging their distance from them. Feynriel and Anders both put down their things and rose to look as well, Anders' lips thinning in displeasure, Feynriel's frown changing from one of concentration to one of worry.

"How long until that reaches us?" the younger mage asked.

"Two hours, perhaps a little more. We should make sure to have all our things packed away before it arrives, and it and us under whatever shelter we can arrange. Let me go speak to our hosts, and see what can be arranged."

* * *

There was enough room in the crew's cabin for their things to be stacked in shelter, but not really enough room for the three of them to have fit, most of the available space already being filled with cargo that needed protection from weather, and the scant remainder with the hammocks and supplies for the crew. But they'd been given the loan of a large waxed tarpaulin and some rope, and Fenris, long experienced at river travel as he was, had rigged them a shelter that would at least keep the worst of the wet off of them, apart from whatever ended up washing around on deck. It would likely be a very damp and uncomfortable night, but not anything worse than that. They retired to the shelter before the storm arrived, the two mages full of good hot fish stew, and Fenris of dry-cured sausage and travel biscuits.

They didn't lie down, but instead sat upright along the wall, all their bedding wrapped around them for warmth. The tarpaulin had been arranged to serve as a floor-cloth as well as a roof, draped down along the wall so that they had a layer of it between them and the wood. Their own weight on the lower portions of it would help to keep the cloth from being snatched away by any wind that might accompany the rain.

The approaching storm was quite audible by then, the peals of thunder both loud and close together, the flashes lighting up the sky. They heard the rain before it reached them, a continuous loud shhh-ing sound of rain drops hitting the surface of the water, then it swept over the boat, drowning out all sounds with the even louder sound of drops pounding against wood, against the waxed tarpaulin stretched overhead. The temperature dropped noticeably within minutes, warm air cooled by the cold rain. It was not, thankfully, a particularly windy storm. The boat pitched a little more than usual, rocking at the anchors that held it in mid-river fore and aft, there being no safe place to dock along this stretch of river, but was in no real danger from the storm.

It was a very long night. They dozed, occasionally, lulled by the rocking of the boat, the monotonous drumming of the rain. Intermittent outbursts of lightning and accompanying thunder woke them. It was damp under the tarpaulin, their bedding wicking up the moisture of the occasional runnels of water that found their way beneath the edges of the tarpaulin and slopped up on top of the ground sheet. But damp was better than soaked, and the roof that draped down over them kept in much of their own warmth as well.

It was still dark when the storm finally abated, retreating beyond them into the west. Fenris found himself wondering how far it stretched, how far it would travel. Would this same storm sprinkle rain on Starkhaven, later today, or perhaps tomorrow?

No way of knowing, of course. They slept a little, still dmp and uncomfortable, until the sun began to rise, the crew to move about the boat preparing it to resume travel now that the storm had passed. Fenris worked on taking down the tarpaulin, while the mages spread the damp bedding out, draping it over the edges of the low cabin roof, weighted with their packs, retrieved from inside, so that no chance breeze could easily snatch away their bedding. They were all tired and sore, but the exertion and the warmth of the rising sun soon cured the worst of the soreness, and the naps they all took later, once their bedding had dried, cured the tiredness.

The remainder of their trip by riverboat was without incident, and a few days later they disembarked at the docks of the small trade city at the confluence of the Minanter River and the Markham River. Fenris said farewell to the crew of the riverboat, feeling, as he always did, a faint wistfulness over leaving the riverboats behind. Not that it was a life he wished he had, or ever wanted more than a small dose of when he did travel up or down the river, but he invariably enjoyed the travelling.

He led the two mages across the lower end of the city, to the smaller docks where the barges that plied the Markham docked. They were much smaller boats than travelled on the Minanter, having to deal with narrower, shallow channels as they did, and most were outfitted to be hauled by oxen from shore, for the upstream journey, though for downstream travel they generally just floated along utilizing the swifter current of the small river.

There were two barges in, but the earliest either was leaving was not until the morning of the day after tomorrow. They made arrangements to head upriver on it, then book sa room for themselves in a shabbry inn not too far from the riverfront. Not the cleanest nor best-smelling of places, though at least the odours of cookery emerging from the kitchen smelled wholesome. And, travelling with two mages as he was, Fenris doubted there'd be any problem with vermin in the bedding; bed bugs and fleas were one thing all mages knew a spell or two against.


	27. Chapter 27

"There's a man watching us," Feynriel muttered softly as he took a seat beside Fenris at the table, their second evening in the inn.

"Where?" Fenris asked equally softly, not looking around. Anders, too, kept his eyes down, though as close as he sat to the mage, Fenris could see his shoulders tensing under the thin fabric of his shirt.

"Seated to the left of the fireplace. Dark hair; dressed like a farmer, but I think he's no more a farmer than our friend here is," Feynriel answered, gesturing with one fingertip toward Anders.

Anders snorted and gave Feynriel an offended look. Feynriel grinned, briefly. "You may have been born a farmer's son, but that's hardly what you are," he pointed out. "No more than I'm an Antivan merchant or a Dalish elf." Anders shrugged, conceding the point.

Fenris managed a brief glance at the man in question a few minutes later, when he finished his plate of stew and rose to go fetch a mug of ale for himself from the nearby bar. He suspected Feynriel was right, and that the man was no farmer; he sat too straight in his seat, and looked too well-fed. His hands were well-grimed, with a dark crescent of earth under his nails, but those nails were too neatly trimmed, and the skin under the coating of dirt was pale, not tanned; the man must normally wear some kind of gloves or gauntlets, which in combination with the width of shoulder and erect posture argued for an armsman of some kind.

"What should we do?" Feynriel asked worriedly after he'd rejoined the two mages at the table.

"Ignore him for now; one man alone is unlikely to try anything against the three of us. Let me know if anyone joins him. Finish your food; we might not get breakfast," Fenris instructed.

Anders snorted and nodded, mopping up the last of the gravy in his own bowl with a bit of bread before neatly eating the bread. Feynriel frowned, but finished his own stew and bread as well. When the barmaid came by to take away their empty bowls, Fenris ordered dessert for them all as well. An apple pie, redolent of spices, which the three of them gorged themselves on before finally heading upstairs to their room.

"Pack your things, quietly," Fenris ordered as soon as they'd closed the door behind them. His own things were still packed; he quickly strapped on his sword and lifted his bag to one shoulder, then stood listening at the door. No sounds from out in the hallway; no suspicious creaks from the stairs or the hallway, and as old as the building was, he'd have expected to hear _something_ if anyone lurked outside. "Blow out the candle, wait a little while, then look outside," he whispered to Feynriel.

Anders signalled the younger mage to remain where he was, after he'd blown out the candle, and carefully approached the windows himself, staying well back from the faint light coming in from outside, standing to one side to peer cautiously out, before ducking down to cross and look out again from the other side. He hissed, and held up two fingers.

Fenris bit back a curse. "Are either of them our friend from downstairs?" he asked. Anders shook his head. "At least three of them, then," he observed, then eased the door open a crack. The hallway, as far as he could see, was deserted. "Follow me, as quietly as you can," he ordered, and led the way out into the hallway, then along it toward the back of the building. Taking a chance, he opened the door to another room after listening briefly at it. The room proved empty, and a window there overlooked the shed-roofed stable attached to that side of the inn. He peered out the window in both directions to be as sure as he could that this side of the building was unwatched, then led the two mages out of it, and down the sloped roof to drop into the small yard in back of the inn.

It smelled badly back there, much of the yard being taken up by the jakes for the inn's customers to use, as well as a small manure pile from the stables. A boost from Fenris helped the two men to climb up onto the roof of the jakes. He was just pulling himself up after them when there was a shout from the direction of the inn – someone had spotted them.

They quickly scrambled over the wall in back of the inn, dropping into the yard of one of the houses backing onto it, and from there made their way to the street the houses fronted on. "This way," Fenris ordered, being the only one of them with any previous familiarity with the town, and loped off along the street, ducking down an alley that led away from the vicinity of the inn.

Their pursuit must not have been very many men, or at all well-organized; apart from that one shout, and the sound of running footsteps in the distance when they cut from the mouth of an alleyway across a broad street before disappearing into a warren of older, narrower streets, there were no signs of pursuit. It unnerved Fenris more than a little, escaping that easily, and he couldn't help wondering if they were walking right into some form of trap. Or perhaps the men had been there after someone else, not them, and it was just sheer chance that they'd appeared to have been under watch.

In any case, he led the way to an area of small warehouses and shops not too far from the barge docks, where they holed up for the remainder of the night in a narrow, draft-ridden alleyway where it jogged crookedly between buildings, and hid them from view of anyone at either end of it. It was a cool night; none of them slept well, if at all.

Once the sky began to turn grey with a combination of dawn and an early-morning fog, they moved on again, Fenris leading them down to the barge docks. The crew of the barge they had passage booked on were already stirring, and were thankfully willing to let them board right away. All three of them remained tense, expecting questioning of their presence or even outright attack at any time, but the barge eventually set off without any incident, the oxen hauling it upstream at a slow but steady pace, the town soon disappearing behind them. The two mages eventually settled down to nap, catching up on missed sleep; Fenris remained awake, keeping an eye on the tow-path behind them for the rest of the day, and wishing he knew if it had truly been one of them that the men they'd seen had been looking for.

* * *

It was not until their third day of slow upriver travel that Fenris finally allowed himself to relax and begin to enjoy the journey again. There'd been no signs of pursuit; no indication at all of anyone following them, or of any danger to them. No danger other than boredom, barge travel being a particularly mind-numbing mode of transportation, limited as it was to the speed of oxen hauling them upriver against the current at a slow walk.

They could, in fact, have travelled by foot faster than the barge was moving, but it moved steadily, and for longer each day than they could have travelled on foot, and didn't need to stop for meals, as they would have had to. There were brief stops a couple of times each day as they progressed along the river, pausing at way-stations where the current team of oxen would be traded out for a fresh pair, replaced in its turn some hours later and some miles further upstream. Once, late on the second day, they had a slightly longer stop, while cargo was offloaded, and new cargo for further upriver loaded on.

The landscape slowly changed, from the floodplains along the Minanter to rolling hills, the tail end of the Vimmark mountains dimly visible off to their right – far to the southwest – while ahead of them the land slowly rose toward the straggling foothills that separated much of Markham from the coastal lands beyond. The city of Markham itself was some distance from the river that bore its name, off near those distant mountains, while Hercinia was somewhere ahead of them on the coast, beyond the hills.

On the fourth day they passed through the town that lay at the foot of the small side-branch of the Markham that travelled off toward the city, petering out somewhere in the hills between here and there. They stopped there for half a day, while most of their remaining cargo was offloaded and more taken on, before resuming their journey. A short enough stop that they elected to stay on board rather than going ashore, and risking being left behind.

The barge continued upriver another four days travel, while the Markham curved first southwest and then northeast through the hills before finally turning southwest again. They disembarked in mid-afternoon of the last day at the farthest navigable town on the river; the river could be followed further than that, but not barges – only by rowboats, canoes and punts, and other small boats of that ilk.

Fenris disliked stopping there for even one night, after their experience at the mouth of the Markham, and instead insisted on them leaving town that very day, taking only enough time to restock on supplies before the three of them headed southwest through the mountains toward Hercinia. The trails were well-travelled and well-marked, the grade not particularly steep this far from the peaks of the Vimmark. Two days of steady walking brought them to the hills overlooking the coast, out of Markham and into the coastal lands of Hercinia. The city of Hercinia was just barely visible in the distance. A third day of travel on foot – a very long third day – brought them down out of the hills, and to the gates of Hercinia itself, well after dark.

"We'll need to find a place to stay for the night," Feynriel pointed out after they'd entered the city. "It's too late to be heading for the docks and looking for a ship to take us anywhere."

Fenris nodded agreement.

Anders grunted, and gestured down a nearby side-street; a sign could be seen hanging outside one of the buildings there, swinging fitfully in the offshore wind. The building was well-lit, a sound of singing coming from it They walked over to take a closer look. The sign proved to be in the shape of some sort of fish, leaping out of an oversized mug of beer or ale.

"The Thirsty Sturgeon," Feynriel read aloud, then looked at the pair of them.

Anders and Fenris shrugged, neither having any particular opinion. Feynriel opened the door, and they went inside.


	28. Chapter 28

If not for years of exposure to such establishments, Fenris would have felt uncomfortable as soon as they entered; so many people, all in chaotic motion, so much noise. But he quickly sorted out what he was seeing; a crowded pub, most of the tables packed with humans in every style of dress from labourers to minor merchants, all busily eating, drinking and talking loudly. There was a table of elves in a back corner, their heads bent together, and another table close at hand shared by two elves and two humans, the four of them all dressed in the heavy canvas pants and cable knit sweaters that many sailors favoured. A dwarf was perched on a stool at the bar, a trio of them with the look of well-off merchants sharing a bench along the wall. The usual mix for such a place, in other words.

They worked their way across the room to the bar, Feynriel taking the lead. The mage quickly determined that, yes, there were rooms available for rent upstairs, and arranged a room and their meals – supper now, and breakfast tomorrow – and paid for them. They found seats together at a table near the stairs, and were soon tucking into a good hot meal; a roasted pigeon each, served with gravy and boiled root vegetables on a trencher of a nutty-flavoured dark bread, with a tankard of what proved to be rather good ale. They ate the succulent birds and tender chunks of vegetables with their fingers, tossing the bones into a wooden bowl in the middle of the table, and finishing off by eating the gravy-soaked bread. All of them were feeling quite pleasantly full by the time they finished.

It being late, and all three of them being disinclined to linger in public, they retired upstairs to the room Feynriel had rented for them, a small slant-roofed attic room. It had two beds; the mages claimed those, and Fenris, mindful of his role as Feynriel's bodyguard, made a pallet for himself on the floor in front of the door, so no one could leave or enter without waking him first.

"How long a voyage is it from here to Ferelden?" Feynriel asked once they were all comfortably rolled up in their bedding.

"Not long; if the winds are steady, and they usually are at this time of year, it should be about three days sail west to Ostwick, and then another two days to cross to Amaranthine," Fenris replied. "Assuming also that we have no problems with pirates; there are still some that ply the waters around Brandel's Reach and Alamar, though Ferelden and Ostwick banded together several years ago to clean out the worst nests of them. Many of whom proved to be Orlesian-backed privateers, unsurprisingly enough."

Anders made a noise of disgust. Fenris smiled, unsurprised that the Fereldan-raised mage thought little of Orlesians. Doubly-so considering the chantry was based out of Val Royeaux. He was not overly-fond of Orlesians himself, having yet to meet one who regarded him as anything more than a talking animal who should be mindful of the wants and desires of his betters. Which he, for one, certainly didn't regard any Orlesian he'd yet met to be.

That would be another advantage to Ferelden, he found himself thinking; not just its distance from Tevinter, but the fact that in their hatred of all things Orlesian the country had come to adopt a somewhat more liberal view of elves and their acceptable places in society. The great losses among the peasantry during first the occupation and the rebellion, and then the recent Blight, had left the country desperately in need of additional hands to work the fields and farms and forests; they not only welcomed human workers from other countries, as they had for almost two generations now – witness how Anders' own parents had moved all the way to Ferelden from the Anderfells for a better life – but were also now reportedly much more accepting of elves moving out of the alienages and into rural towns and villages. Elves were now reportedly working alongside the humans throughout much of the country, granted the same rights and protections and subject to the same laws that their human neighbours were. Necessity was rapidly turning Ferelden into one of the more egalitarian societies on Thedas, even if elves were still largely restricted to the lower classes.

He wondered if there would ever be a time when the ancient hatred between elves and human would be laid to rest; when both races could live in some reasonable degree of peace with each other. A pretty dream, he decided after some thought, but likely never more than that – a dream, something that would never survive the light of day. He sighed, and rolled over into a slightly more comfortable position, gradually drifting off to sleep.

* * *

Breakfast proved to be as filling as their supper the night before; slices of a thick mush made of oats and ground yellow peas seasoned with herbs, fried with onions and chunks of sausage, and served with strong hot tea, delivered to their room on a large tray by one of the inn servants. There was nothing to sweeten the tea, so they drank it black, neither Fenris or Anders minding, through Feynriel made a face; he vastly preferred tea to be sweetened. It was only as he was sipping at the dregs of his own tea that Fenris found himself remembering that Anders had always preferred his sweetened as well, and considered, for the first time, what else the mage had lost when his tongue had been removed; not just the ability to speak in any easily understood manner, but even the simple ability to taste his food and drink.

Somehow, that seemed even worse to Fenris than the loss of speech. He actually froze for a moment, thinking of all the flavours of all the things he most enjoyed, and tried to imagine never, ever tasting them again. He couldn't; it seemed far too alien a concept. No more sweet or salt or sour; no more sharp tang of a pickle, or heat of peppery spice, no more sweet cookies or tart piece of perfectly ripe apple. The wonderful blending of flavours of the herbed fried mush, caramelized onions and fat-rich chunks of browned sausage they were eating might be lost on the mage, reduced to whatever he could derive from their smell and texture and his memories of similar meals.

Fenris put down his empty mug, feeling far more upset than he would have expected to, and wondering how he'd never realized this before. He thought of all the times he'd brought treats of one kind or another down to the cellars for Anders; of the temptingly seasoned dishes the kitchen staff had sometimes made and sent down when the mage hadn't been eating properly. He watched as Anders broke up a length of sausage into even smaller pieces before eating it, chewing it slowly and carefully before swallowing, and found himself thinking how difficult even _that_ must be, without more than a stub of tongue left in his mouth to move the food around.

Anders noticed that Fenris was staring at him, and gave him a curious look, one eyebrow raising inquiringly.

"I was just realizing... can you even taste your food?" Fenris asked abruptly, feeling a sudden need to _know_.

Anders eyebrows rose and he made an amused sound, then smiled and nodded, at the same time lifting one hand and rocking it from side-to-side, palm down.

"Yes, but not well?" Fenris hazarded a guess.

Anders nodded again, swallowing the bite of food that was in his mouth, and cleared his throat before attempting speech. "Dasd sdah... sdai... Dasd _dodd_."

"Odd?" Feynriel asked.

"Strange?" Fenris guessed the word the mage had given up on. "Tastes strange?"

"Mmm," Anders hummed, nodding emphatically, then held up a lump of fried mush and inhaled deeply through his nose, a look of enjoyment crossing his face. He smiled at them. "Ssme guh," he said, then popped the bit of food into his mouth and carefully chewed.

"Smells good," Feynriel interpreted, and nodded, smiling. "It does," he agreed, and ate some more of his own food.

Fenris was relieved. Relieved, to find his guess had been wrong, or at least not entirely accurate. And surprised over how upset the thought had made him.

When they were finished eating they left the tray outside the door to be collected, and took turns washing at the small washstand in front of the window, using the jug of lukewarm water that had been delivered along with the food. He and Feynriel had lost any real modesty around each other even before they'd left Kirkwall; he'd stopped feeling self-conscious of Anders' presence as well, some time in the days before setting out from Starkhaven. It made things simpler, when they were sharing quarters and travelling in such close company, to not be overly concerned over comparative states of dress or undress. Especially when Anders' damaged hands made it difficult to perform a number of simple everyday tasks that he would otherwise have taken care of himself, such as putting on socks, undoing or doing up laces, or otherwise caring for his person.

Fenris couldn't help but smile slightly when he turned away from tipping the basin out the window to see Feynriel kneeling on the bed behind Anders, an intent look of concentration on his face as he neatly combed out the elder mage's hair. Anders head was tipped forward, eyes closed, and a gentle smile on his face; enjoying the attention, clearly, as Feynriel swept back most of the hair except the shaggy bangs, and neatly fastened it in a club with a length of leather thong.

It wasn't much longer until they were all three dressed and ready, and set out down the hill to the docks in search of a ship headed in the right direction. There were several in harbour today, Fenris could see from the one good view of the small bay they had before a curve in the street and taller buildings blocked their line of sight; three at dock, and two riding at anchor further out, as well as the usual scatter of small fishing craft that could be found in any seaside port.

The road curved, and curved again, before opening out into a marketplace. They took the opportunity it presented to restock on some of their supplies; basic things mostly, like a tin of travel biscuits, a large handful of dried spicy sausages, a hard-cured salty cheese that would keep for some time. Treats, too, in the form of dried fruit for later, and a small basket of pickled limes that they shared among themselves as they continued down toward the harbour, making faces at the salty, sour taste of them.

Distracted by the limes, and hardly expecting anything to occur in broad daylight on a busy street, Fenris was startled when a cart suddenly rumbled out of a side-street, blocking the road behind them, while a group of men rushed out of an alleyway to block the road ahead; mostly armed and armoured, in the mismatched gear common to slavers and mercenaries, and two dressed in robes; an older scar-faced man in a ratty sun-faded robe who he guessed might be part of the larger group, and a much younger mage dressed in a brightly coloured elaborate robe that he guessed was of recent Tevinter style; a magister, or someone close to being one. Fenris quickly moved a step in front of his two friends, reaching for his sword.

"Stop," the mageling said calmly, moving a step forward and gesturing at the rooftops overhead; a glance showed Fenris that there were a pair of archers to either side of the street, their crossbows loaded and pointed down at him. He froze, fingertips just touching the hilt of his greatsword, then slowly lowered his hand again. The mageling smiled, eyes bright with malice, then looked beyond him. "Feynriel. What a surprise to find you outside the confines of the library. And so far afield, too."

"Timon, this is indeed a surprise," Feynriel answered with false cheerfulness. "I'd never heard that you had any interest in travelling abroad; why, you rarely even set foot outside your master's compound. I heard from mutual friends that he usually kept you quite busy."

Timon's face hardened; there must be some history between the two of them that the seemingly innocent words referred to, Fenris assumed.

"I travel when I must," Timon said coldly. "Witness that I am _here_ now."

"And you are here now because...?"

"Why, looking for you, of course. You can imagine how distraught Magister Feran was when he determined to invite you to an entertainment at his mansion, only to receive word you'd gone missing."

"So he sent you to fetch me home? How... very generous of him," Feynriel said, voice cold and unfriendly.

Fenris wished he knew more about the situation; they were obviously in a bad position here, with the street blocked and men before and above them, and likely behind as well; _someon_e had moved that cart into position. But he didn't dare to look behind and see.

"_Too_ generous," Timon said with a sneer. "I can't understand why he's wasting my time on gathering in a whoreson mongrel like you; he could buy five just like you at the market for less than the cost of my ticket alone. And any of the half-elf bastards likely to have more power than _you_."

One of the mercenaries had been staring closely at Fenris during the conversation. Now he edged up beside Timon, ducking his head to whisper something to the mageling, his eyes never leaving Fenris.

Timon turned to give Fenris a hard stare, then his eyes widened almost comically in shocked surprise. "It _is_," he exclaimed, loud enough for the sound to carry. "Take the three of them," he suddenly ordered loudly. "The elf alive, if possible, but dead if that's the only choice."

The mercenaries charged, their mage already raising his staff in the first motions of casting some spell. Fenris snatched his sword off of its hanger, phasing even as he moved to draw it, dimly aware of the sound of a pair of crossbow bolts shattering against the cobblestones underfoot; crippling shots, most likely, aimed at his legs. He moved to engage the charging mercenaries, trusting Anders and Feynriel to deal with the archers and the mages.

The attackers hadn't expected him; not his powers, not his speed or his strength, nor his ability in battle. He killed the lead pair of them in the first few seconds of the fight, wounded a third, killed another, disabled a fifth – that one likely to die from the wound he'd been given, if it wasn't treated in time. The charge faltered, the fighters retreating away from him, seeking to regroup. A glance to the rooftops showed the archers gone; one fallen to the street, neck broken from the impact, one a heap of smoking clothing and scorched flesh, two disappeared – fled or dead, it little mattered, so long as they weren't firing any more bolts down.

Timon was looking pale and shocked; clearly this was his first experience of battle. And his last; as the mageling made a faltering move to draw and use his own staff, Fenris closed with him, and ripped his heart out.

That was enough for the mercenaries; with half their number down and the man paying them dead, they gave up and fled entirely, abandoning the field, their dead and wounded as well.

Fenris turned to check on the mages. They were both fine; Feynriel looking a little sickened but Anders had the usual calm, alert expression that he'd always had in and after battles, head moving from side to side as he kept an eye out for any stragglers. There had been more mercenaries; a pair of bodies lay motionless on the ground by the cart, it and them glittering with frost.

"We'd better get out of here, fast," Fenris said. Anders and Feynriel nodded, and he quickly led them away, hoping they could find a ship or otherwise get out of the city before any guard or templar could track them down. At least any further threat from Tevinter was unlikely to materialize for some time.


	29. Chapter 29

Fenris ducked down a side-street, then into an alley, leading them on a twisting course away from where they'd been ambushed. Only once they were some distance away did he lead them back to one of the main streets, and from there on down to the harbour. They had no further problems on the way there.

Of the three ships at dock, two were headed the wrong direction – northeast to the Rialto Bay – and one was a coaster, working the northern shore of the Waking Sea and Amaranthine Ocean between Hercinia and Cumberland; no use to them. There was a tender at dock from one of the anchored ships, a lone crewman waiting aboard. He was willing to admit that the ship he belonged to was bound for Ferelden, but for the answers to any further questions he said they'd need to wait and talk to the captain.

They sat down on some barrels in the shade of a nearby warehouse, and waited. And _waited_. It was past noon before a large well-dressed man attended by two even larger and well-armed sailors came walking along the dock, clearly heading for the tender. The three of them rose, and walked over; the waiting sailor was speaking to the man, and gestured their direction as they approached. He turned, and gave the three of them a wary look, then spoke to Feynriel. "You looking for passage to Ferelden for yourself and your servants?" he asked.

Fenris bit his lip, but declined to correct the man; as Feynriel's bodyguard he supposed he technically _was_ a servant right now, and Feynriel being considerably better-dressed than Anders, and human, it was a natural assumption for the man to have made.

Feynriel, experienced at travelling as he was, made short work of arranging passage for the three of them to Amaranthine. The ship was due to sail that night; as they had all their possessions and a good amount of supplies with them already, they simply boarded the tender along with the captain and his men, and rode out to the ship with them.

They were given a tiny cabin below-decks, adjacent to the hold and doubtless serving as extra cargo space much of the time, the ship not really being designed to take passengers. At the captain's orders they were supplied with three hammocks to string from hooks set in the wooden walls, a hanging lantern to light the space, a tightly lidded bucket to use as a chamberpot, a small table, and a single chair. As small as the cabin was, that used up almost all of the space in it anyway; only two of them at most could be on their feet at the same time, the third having to remain either in a hammock, on the chair, or out in the passageway.

The captain – Captain Lavell – made it clear that he preferred them to remain out of the way during the voyage, staying in their cabin and out from underfoot as much as possible. It should, thankfully, be a fairly short voyage; three days west to Ostwick first of all, and then two days to cross south to Amaranthine.

They spent some time packing away their belongings as well as they could, which mostly involved seeing that their packs and other supplies were stacked on the floor under the table and the lowest hammock in some reasonably secure but accessible fashion, after which Anders and Fenris stretched out in two of the hammocks while Feynriel sat down at the table and wrote in his journal for a while by the light of the lantern; not an easy task, especially with the ship rocking slightly. He soon gave up, and simply sat back in the chair, arms folded and staring off into space.

Fenris found the quiet very relaxing; the slight rocking motion and the sounds of the waves against the hull, the creak of rope and wood, these were all familiar things to him from his voyages with Isabela. He wondered how she was doing, and if she had managed to talk the Nevarran authorities into making her a privateer. He smiled, easily imagining her in such a role; she was, after all, a pirate, and privateering was just piracy with a thin mask of questionable legality on.

He craned his head enough to the side to see Anders, in the lowest hammock, and smiled slightly when he saw the mage was already napping, eyes shut and head rolled to the side, mouth slightly open. A nap, he decided, was a good decision, and made himself more comfortable in the hammock.

* * *

Feynriel woke him a few hours later, handing him a mug of small beer and a handful of dried fruit and hard cheese for his dinner. Anders was seated at the table, already eating. Feynriel moved over to lean against the wall beside the table, freeing what little floor space he could. Fenris, moving carefully, sat up and let his legs dangle off the side of the hammock, leaning back across the width of it so that it acted as a chair, rather than attempting to find room to stand as well.

"We should be setting sail shortly," Feynriel said. "Evening tide."

Fenris nodded, his mouth too full of dried apple slices to bother answering. "Close quarters," he said once he'd swallowed. "Though I'm sure we'll be allowed on deck occasionally. To empty and rise the slop bucket, if nothing else," he added, nodding toward where it sat in the corner by the door.

Feynriel nodded in agreement. "I've been up once already, to ask the Captain about that. He says we can have an hour or two on deck each day, though preferably not all three of us at the same time. And I've already bribed the cook to see that we get hot water twice a day for tea," he added.

"And purchased beer?" Fenris asked, raising an eyebrow and his mug.

Feynriel grinned. "Yes. From the Captain; says he never trusts the water and it's safer to drink beer."

Anders made a sound of agreement and nodded his head, before sipping from his own mug. Fenris agreed as well; it was one of the things he'd learned while travelling with Isabela. Never trust the local water unless you'd boiled it first, or cut it with a good measure of some strong drink. Beer was usually, though not always, safer. Ignoring that rule when travelling was a good way to end up with a bloody flux of the bowels. Doubtless Feynriel was aware of it too, from his own travels. Hence the purchase of a keg of beer for their own supply on the run to Ferelden.

They had little to talk of during the meal, or afterwards, Fenris telling Feynriel what little he knew of Ferelden from his few visits there, with occasional grunts of agreement or brief interjections from Anders. The older mage knew the place best of the three of them, but communication would always be a problem, and he clearly didn't think he had anything to currently contribute to the discussion that was worth the effort of trying to write it out.

"There we go," Feynriel said after a while. Fenris nodded agreement, listening to the familiar sounds from overhead of a crew readying a ship for sail, and the feel of it turning to catch the wind and run. The movement of the ship at sail was different than when anchored in harbour, a smoother movement at first until they got out beyond the breakwall, then choppier for a while before settling down on her westward course.

There being nothing else to do, and no reason to waste their lamp oil, they went to bed not long after that, each of them settling down in a hammock, then Feynriel, in the topmost one, leaning over to extinguish the flame. It was very dark in the cabin after that, and quiet.

Fenris lay awake some time, listening to the sounds of the ship, and eventually to the soft snores of the other two men, unable at first to settle to sleep himself. He rolled over on one side, settling himself more comfortably in the hammock, then after a while hummed very quietly to himself. And smiled, as two wisps popped into view, something about their movement expressing pleasure that he'd finally called them again. Hider and Singer, he thought from their tones, and cupped one hand against the canvas near his head. Hider promptly slipped into the little cave thus formed, its faint glow almost entirely hidden, while Singer began a slow exploration of the cabin, humming its three notes at random; a soothing sound. It wasn't long after that before Fenris finally slept too, lulled at last by the comfort of their presence.


	30. Chapter 30

The voyage from Hercinia to Ostwick was largely uneventful, and quite boring. Every morning they'd be woken by a sailor delivering a metal jug of freshly-boiled water from the cook, which they'd use to make their tea, as well as do whatever minimal amount of bodily cleansing they could manage; Feynriel managed to shave himself each morning, through Anders had decided to pass on shaving for the short time they'd be aboard ship, letting his chin grow stubbled again.

They'd eat their breakfast out of their own supplies – a cold one, apart from the tea, as were all their meals – then Anders would take his turn on deck, bringing up the slop bucket to be dumped over the side and rinsed with sea water. He liked the morning hours, when it was quiet, most of the sailors either sleeping or eating, and would often return before his time was up, if it had begun to become too busy on deck.

Feynriel usually went up later in the morning, and would spend most of this time on deck perched in some out-of-the-way corner, either reading or writing. He'd also spend at least a little time in walking back and forth, and other light exercise.

For Fenris, his late afternoon forays up on deck were a time for exercise; he'd bring his sword, and practise his forms, ignoring the stares and sometimes overly-admiring looks of the sailors. The Captain came up on deck and watched as well, on their third day out, leaning against the railing and watching him with an unreadable expression on his face.

When Fenris was finished, the man straightened and moved a few steps closer. "You move well," Captain Lavell said, and gave him a questioning look. "Good sea-legs. You've sailed before?"

"Yes, I have," Fenris answered shortly, then decided some degree of politeness was called for, and expanded on his answer. "For several years, on and off; I've worked crew more than once."

"What ships did you work on?"

"Just one; the Sea Spirit, with Captain Isabela."

"Ahhh, _her_. She is quite good," Lavell said, sounding satisfied. "Unless you're a slaver, and then she's a very bad thing to have happen to your day."

"Yes, she is," Fenris agreed, smiling slightly.

His curiosity apparently satisfied, the Captain wandered off again. Fenris stopped by the galley to pick up their evening pitcher of hot water, then went back down below decks to their room.

Anders was sitting at the table, doing his hand-flexing exercises, Feynriel sprawled out in his hammock, napping. Fenris stopped abruptly just inside the door; the room smelled. Not just of unwashed bodies and the slop bucket, which he was used to by now, but a muskier scent as well. The smell of sex. He stared at Anders for a moment, eyebrows raising.

Anders flushed, and looked away for a moment, then looked back, eye meeting Fenris' almost defiantly, chin raising and mouth setting stubbornly. Fenris snorted and smiled slightly, then continued the step forward needed to put the heavy pitcher down on the table. He was not, he realized, entirely surprised. The mages were close; Feynriel clearly though highly of Anders. And Anders... well, with his return to himself he must, one presumed, have been feeling entirely normal needs and desires again. If things were working out that way between the pair of them, _he_ was hardly going to protest. They were both adults and could make their own choices.

He set about making their tea, measuring leaves into their mugs and then pouring in the hot water, while Anders ducked down and hauled a bag out from under the table – their food supplies. He set it in his lap, and carefully took out the parcels of different foodstuffs, his stiff hands able to manage that without too much difficulty, though he didn't have the fine control necessary to easily undo the strings holding things shut, or sort out food for them. Fenris did that, while their tea steeped, retying and handing back each parcel as he finished, Anders silently putting them back away in the larger bag.

Feynriel yawned and shifted, then woke up, smiling sleepily at the two of them. "Dinner?" he asked.

"Yes. Stay there," Fenris told him, and once Feynriel had shifted to a more upright position, handed him a napkin full of food, and his mug of tea. He himself leaned against the wall between the hammock ropes and the table, and ate standing up; they always let Anders have the table, since it made it much easier for him to deal with his food.

"I'll be glad when we get to Amaranthine and can have a proper hot meal again," Feynriel said, grimacing at the dry peppery sausage he was gnawing bits off of in between bites of equally hard biscuit and well-aged salty cheese.

Fenris smiled. "It could be worse. It could be ship's rations instead. Weevils in the biscuits and brined pork or beef instead of the sausage. Or dry, salted fish. No cheese."

Feynriel shuddered. "No thanks, I've had enough of those to last me a lifetime already," he said.

Fenris and Anders both grinned at his reaction. Travel in Thedas was never an easy thing; they had actually been having a rather easy and pleasant trip so far. Fenris just hoped their luck held the remainder of the way to Ferelden.

* * *

Fenris found himself remembering that wish rather ruefully just two days later. The ship had docked in Ostwick for only half a day, long enough to offload some cargo that was destined there, and take on some for Amaranthine, Highever and Jader. By early afternoon they'd set sail again, headed south along the western coast of Brandel's Reach; one of the few places where the Waking Sea could be crossed without losing sight of land, the other being the narrows just past Kirkwall. Ships preferred such crossings as they were safer, and much more easily navigated, than going out into open water.

Unfortunately those who preyed on ships also lurked in such areas, and Brandel's Reach was known to be home to raiders and pirates. Shortly after dawn the following day they found their path south being cut off by a pair of ships sailing into their path. Fenris was on deck at the time, having volunteered to bring up the slop bucket that morning, and heard the captain cursing.

"Trouble, ser?" he dared to ask.

"It might be. Usually there is just one ship – that smaller one, there," he gestured. "And I pay a tithe and continue on. That second ship... they may be after more than just a tithe today," he said grimly.

"Shall I fetch my sword?"

"Hmm. Perhaps; stay out of sight, if you please, while I wait to find out whether or not we are in trouble," he said, then walked off to have a quiet word with the First Mate.

Fenris hurried below decks, warning the two mages of what was going on before heading back up. He stayed on the steps, where he could see a good portion of the deck of their own ship, and hear what was being said, but wasn't easily visible.

Captain Lavell was standing at the railing, shouting back and forth with someone on one of the other ships. Judging by the set of his jaw and the stiffness of his posture, he was not liking what he was hearing. Abruptly he turned away from the rail, barking orders; they were going to attempt to run for it.

The sailors moved quickly, the ship swinging its bow to starboard, turning to run northwest. Additional crew was coming up on deck, mainly with weapons, though some took to the shrouds to work the sails. Seeing no reason to remain below out of sight any further, Fenris came up on deck as well, quickly moving to a spot out of the path of the busy sailors. From there he could see the other pair of ships again. The smaller ship had been approaching from their southwest before, to block them from moving west, while the larger had been blocking their path south. The smaller ship was now moving north and a little west as well, trying to block their seaward escape, while the larger ship chased after them. If they could get past the small ship without too much trouble, they would hopefully be able to outrun the pair, but if the smaller ship was able to slow or stop them long enough, the larger would overtake them. Fenris studied the speed at which they and the smaller ship were moving, and felt uneasily that it was going to be a very close thing.

Feynriel's head rose above the deck opening, Anders' head rising up into view just afterwards, the two looking anxiously around. Fenris waved when Anders looked his way, and Anders touched Feynriel's shoulder to get his attention, then pointed Fenris' location out to him. The two quickly scrambled out and over to join him, earning a look and a slight scowl from the Captain, but nothing worse. Fenris quickly brought them up to date on what was happening. Anders looked up at the sails overhead, then frowned at the smaller ship. It was moving fast; but moving to leeward of them as it was, it was going to lose some speed as it drew to the west of them and they began stealing its wind. It would already have a fair bit of way on by then though, and might still manage to pull ahead and block their own course, forcing them to turn, and their only choices of direction would be to either turn back east, toward land and into the wind, or to try and cut southwest between the two ships, neither a good choice.

"Is there anything either of you can do?" Fenris asked quietly.

"Yes, if it becomes necessary," Feynriel said. "Though best if we don't have to reveal ourselves."

Anders frowned, and touched the younger mage on the shoulder, shook his head at him, and then tapped his own chest. "Cay wawwen; zaveh fou meh."

Fenris frowned as well, then nodded as he sorted out the words; it would be safer for Anders to reveal himself as a mage than for Feynriel to do the same, his status as a Grey Warden – however lapsed – being some protection for him. Feynriel pursed his lips, but nodded agreement as well.

They remained where they were, watching silently. The smaller ship, as expected, slowed somewhat as it passed into their wind-shadow, its sails sagging a little as they lost the full force of the wind. Fenris held his breath, watching... but it had been moving at a pretty fair clip, and didn't lose enough speed; its sails began to refill all-too-soon, as it continued on its course to intercept their own. Anders hissed through his teeth; it was going to be very close.

"Prepare to repel boarders!" Captain Lavell called out. Most of the armed crew members moved toward the port side rail. Fenris took a step forward, then stood watching the Captain, only moving on after the Captain had glanced his way and nodded permission. The crew had seen him doing his sword exercises; they made room for him without any fuss.

The distance between the ships closed, the smaller ship beginning to slow on purpose now as it moved into their path. Fenris flexed his hands, eyeing the narrowing gap. He could see members of the other ship's crew lining their starboard rail, a couple of men up in the shrouds with grapples ready to toss to try and hook them.

Fenris had the familiar slightly-sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that he'd had the few times he'd taken part in sea-battles with Isabela and her crew. He didn't like fighting at sea. It somehow seemed an even more brutal business than on shore; perhaps because no one wore armour, and the damage caused was therefore all that much more horrific in degree. Even he had shed his breastplate and metal bracers, leaving them in their cabin below decks; the last thing you wanted to wear at sea was anything that would make swimming more difficult if you ended up overboard. Not that he could swim; Isabela had tried to teach him, but the most he felt confident doing was floating.

Captain Lavell suddenly barked a series of orders. Sailors scrambled; the bow of the ship swung sharply to port, speed dropping as sailors shortened the sails. Their bow passed just aft of the smaller ship, bowsprit almost knocking against its rudder. As they passed behind it, the sailors on board shouted and ran back, but they were too late to grapple on or otherwise interfere with the move. Captain Lavell's men were already putting on all canvas again, and they picked up speed fast, running with the wind now instead of cutting across it.

The larger ship to the south was too far away and could do nothing but continue its chase, changing its angle toward their new course. The smaller ship slowed and turned as well, but it was to their northeast now, and would have to angle back southwest to try to move in behind them and steal their wind. Captain Lavell's brilliant bit of seamanship had won them a lead, and it was still opening, and would continue to do so for some little time. A stern chase west now, and a stern chase was always a long one; with luck, they'd somehow manage to lose their pursuers entirely.

And then Captain Lavell blistered the air with curses; a third ship had just come into view, sailing toward them from out of the west, tacking against the wind but almost certainly capable of cutting them off, even if they altered course again to northwest or southwest.


	31. Chapter 31

The Captain was in consultation with the First Mate, the two of them with their heads together over a chart as they discussed possible plans to evading the third ship. Fenris found the mages at his elbow, and exchanged a long look with Anders, raising one eyebrow slightly. Anders pursed his lips, then nodded.

The Captain gave Fenris an irritated look when he walked over and stopped nearby. "Yes?" he snapped.

"Pardon me, ser, but I though it would be worth informing you that one of our party is a mage – a Grey Warden mage, returning to Vigil's Keep – and may be able to do something to disable a ship, if it's within casting range of him."

"Oh?" The expression on the Captain's face was immediately one of interest. He looked beyond Fenris to where the other two were standing near the railing. "Which is it? The young fellow?"

"No, the older one."

The Captain's eyebrows rose slightly, then he stalked across the deck to the two, giving Anders a searching look. "You are a mage?" he asked.

Anders nodded.

"What can you do against a ship?"

Anders looked to Feynriel, who answered for him. "A number of possible things," the younger mage said quickly. "He could set part of the ship on fire, or ice up its hull to slow it down. Briefly disable a single person, such as their Captain, if he gets a clear enough line of sight at a close enough distance."

"Why doesn't he answer for himself?" Lavell asked, frowning suspiciously.

"Because he can't," Fenris said, at the same time as Anders opened his mouth and said something – possibly an attempt at "can't" – drawing the Captain's attention to his stub of tongue.

"Maker's arse," the Captain exclaimed, looking shocked for a moment, then nodded grimly. "All right. Which of these spells is usable from the furthest distance?"

"The fire," Feynriel said.

The Captain grinned. "Well... a little fire in the rigging will ruin any ship's day," he said, gesturing overhead at their own canvas sails, and the webbing of ropes that existed between masts and ship. "How close would you need to get? How many ship's lengths?"

Anders frowned and looked from fore to aft of their own ship, then turned and looked toward the third ship, which was closing fast with them. He grunted, then held up three fingers, wiggled his hand, and added a fourth.

"Three to four? That is close, but not nearly as close as we came on that last turn," Lavell said with evident satisfaction. "All right then... we will make to the southwest a little, as if trying to dodge the third ship. When it gets close enough, you fire as much of the sails and ropes as you can; we will slip past her and continue west, and if we can open enough of a lead and lose the other two, we will then turn further south, and once I can see the shore to determine how far west we've strayed, make for either Amaranthine or Highever, whichever is closer."

Anders nodded agreement. The Captain and First Mate returned to their work of managing the ship, while Anders moved up to take position in the bow, where he'd have the earliest opportunity to cast at the opposing ship. Feynriel and Fenris went with him, the three of them standing and silently watching the approaching ship. Even through it was having to tack against the wind to close with them, the distance was narrowing quickly.

Captain Lavell joined them as the gap decreased, tense and watchful, eyes narrowed as he watched the oncoming ship. Anders' eyes were glued on the oncoming ship as well. He took a step forward at last, steadying himself against the rail, his own eyes narrowing as he prepared to cast a spell.

"Stop!" Fenris suddenly exclaimed, reaching out to grab Anders' arm. "That's the Sea Spirit!"

He stepped to the rail himself, eyes running along the crew clustered along the railing of the other ship, and smiled, catching sight of a familiar white-clad form. He cupped his hands around his mouth. "Isabela!" he shouted.

She raised an arm and waved, the flash of her teeth in a broad smile visible even from here, and shouted something back; but shouting into the wind as she was, they couldn't hear her words at first.

"She's aiming to pass," Captain Lavell suddenly said. "A close pass, but not close enough to board us."

The ships were close enough now that Fenris could pick out many faces he knew among her crew, and grinned as they pointed and waved at him in recognition. Isabela shouted again, her words audible now. "Keep west a little longer, we're after that fat Orlesian on your tail!" she shouted. "Come and help with her if you'd like a share!" she added as the Sea Spirit slid by their own ship, a gap of only some five to ten feet between the two.

"Orlesian?" Captain Lavell said, puzzled, then cursed angrily. "We'll help!" he shouted to Isabela. She grinned and waved, then turned away as the two ships moved apart.

Lavell strode off, already shouting orders for a turn. It took some time to change from running west to tacking back east; by the time they were turned, the smaller ship was already fleeing northwest, while Isabela's ship had closed with and grappled on to the larger ship, a fight clearly going on across the two decks.

The fight was almost finished with by the time they closed and grappled on as well; Fenris, Lavell, and some of his crew crossed to the Orlesian ship, and helped with the final moments of the battle. The surviving Orlesian sailors mainly surrendered as soon as Captain Lavell's crew joined the fray, knowing themselves beaten, and the few who did continue on fighting were soon either captured or dead.

Isabela picked her way across the deck, a warm smile on her face. "Captain Lavell, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes, and you are the infamous Captain Isabela," he said, and gave her a very pretty bow. "My thanks for your timely rescue."

"Oh, pish, you'd already all but saved yourself," she said dismissively, though looking pleased. "And unintentionally lured out just the ship I was in these waters to find, for which I owe you considerable thanks. You're welcome to whatever of her cargo you'd like, as long as I get to keep the ship and all her officers."

Captain Lavell smiled. "They're worth a reward to you, I take it?"

Isabela grinned. "Yes, and a rather handsome one, alive or dead. They were working the narrows over past Kirkwall for a while, and sank the wrong ship, it seems. The Pentaghast family has acquired a rather thoroughly _personal_ interest in seeing the officers from this ship brought to Nevarran soil; a favourite grandson of the current clan head was having his first taste of command. And last, poor boy."

"Bah, _politics_," Lavell said, and spat on deck. "Any cargo worth taking I will happily take; you are certainly more than welcome to the rest."

Isabela grinned, then turned to Fenris. "Hello sweetness – what a delicious surprise to see you again," she said, stepping over to him, and then gave him a very heated kiss, complete with a rather public groping. He could feel his ears flushing in embarrassed self-consciousness as members of her crew cheered and wolf-whistled, and retaliated with a little rather more discreet groping of his own, which won him a rather blinding smile from her as she finally stepped back.

"Well, _you're_ in fine fettle," she all but purred, then turned back to Captain Lavell, once again all business. "I suggest we group up and sail to Amaranthine together; easier to transfer any heavier cargo you want at dock, and the Fereldans will be happy to take the common sailors off my hands. The ship, too, and I'll give you a share of the selling price if you'll help provide the prize crew for her."

"Certainly. How large a share? A third?"

"I was thinking a fifth; my crew did most of the work of capturing her."

"Why don't we split the two and say a quarter?"

"Done," Isabela said, and the two grinned and shook hands.

"You're lucky I recognized you," Fenris murmured quietly to Isabela once Lavell had moved off to see about selecting some of his men to help crew her, after which he planned to go belowdecks and see what cargo might be worth taking. Whatever she carried was likely to only be things both small and valuable; the ship wouldn't have wanted to be weighed down with anything bulky, which would have slowed her.

"Oh? Why, were you planning to board us?" Isabela asked, sounding amused at the idea.

"No. We were planning to fire your rigging," he said, and turned her to face Captain Lavell's ship, and pointed to where Anders stood by the railing, Feynriel at his side.

"_Sparklefingers!_" Isabela screamed in astonishment, and in a few long strides raced across the deck, stepping up on the railing and jumping the narrow gap to throw her arms around the mage, almost knocking him off his feet as she threw her arms around him in a tight hug.

Fenris followed at a more decorous pace, grinning at the warm smile on Anders' face and Feynriel's surprised look.

"You're okay? You're fine again?" Isabela was asking, one arm still wrapped around Anders' shoulders. The mage had one of his own arms around her waist, and was looking both surprised and pleased by her reaction. He nodded, and tried to say something, then hissed in annoyance at his own inability to talk properly, and settled for nodding and giving her a rather fierce hug of his own.

"It's a long story," Fenris told her as he joined them. "And best told after we reach port, I think."

"Or you could all transfer over to my ship," she pointed out. "I'm sure Captain Lavell won't mind."

"Probably not," Fenris agreed. "Especially since it will mean that he can convert our room back to cargo space."


	32. Chapter 32

Captain Lavell had no problem with losing his passengers to Isabela, especially when it gained him storage space, and already had his men carrying over some of the small valuables he was looting from the Orlesian ship even before they were back up on deck with their belongings. The Orlesian ship, as expected, did not have any great deal of cargo, but the officers had surprisingly well-furnished cabins, the captain's cabin in particular being as finely decorated as if it was a noble's townhouse in Val Royeaux. Isabela took one look at the ornate bedroom and oversized bed, and immediately claimed the furniture from it as a share of the loot that she wished for herself, though she'd have to wait until they were in port in Amaranthine until it could be moved over to her ship.

Captain Lavell, in the meantime, was very pleased with the fine paintings, rugs, silverware, porcelain and so on that he was stripping from the ship. Isabela also gave him and his men a small share of the gold, gems and jewellery she found locked away in a large chest in the captain's quarters, though she claimed the majority of it to be split among her own crew; they had, after all, done most of the fighting.

She looked grim when she found another chest full of fine weapons, and lifted out a sword with a particularly lovely jewel-encrusted hilt, shaped like a dragon's head and neck. She lightly stroked one finger down the arched neck. "The Pentaghast's will want this," she said soberly. "It was the boy's sword. The Orlesians killed him with it, after they'd had their fun with him." That was put aside, as well as several other pieces that she thought she might know the provenance of.

Anders and Feynriel were given a small cabin adjacent to Isabela's; Fenris resumed his usual quarters in her cabin. It felt like coming home, to once again stow away his belongings in the chest reserved for his use, still holding a detritus of odds and ends he'd left behind when they'd last parted. And in a way it was, though he had many homes. This cabin. His rooms in Starkhaven. A corner of the storage loft in Varric's room in the Hanged Man, where he kept a rolled up pallet and bedding, a pack with a change of clothing, and a spare sword; that was also home. He supposed that upstairs room at Aveline and Donnic's house might be another one now, though he wouldn't presume it to be so.

The sort of homes a wanderer needed; ones that would taken him in when he was there. That didn't try to hold onto him when he was ready to move on again, wanting to travel, itching to see what lay beyond the horizon. An itch he shared with Isabela, though she preferred horizons at sea, where she could take her home with her as she went.

She came in the door as he was walking back over to it, paused long enough to kiss him and rub the palm of her hand across the front of his leggings. "Sure the mages won't be lonely without you?" she asked, smiling sweetly.

He smiled, and leaned in to kiss her back in turn, an affectionate kiss on the cheek, with just a single brief teasing flick of tongue. "No more than you are when I'm away," he said softly, and startled a laugh and a smile from her, as well as a soft-fisted hit to his upper arm.

"Like that, are they?" she asked, one eyebrow arching gracefully.

He shrugged. "I think so. Newly begun, if so."

"Ah," she said, and smiled. "I can certainly understand why Anders would. Such a delicious young man. Wherever did you pick him up?"

Fenris smiled. "Part of that long story. You'll hear it over supper. Or is Captain Lavell dining with us?"

"No, I asked, but he'd rather concentrate on loading his ship so we can move on as soon as possible tomorrow. An impulse I can understand; there _was_ that smaller ship that got away, and while I only know of the one Orlesian ship in these waters, that doesn't mean that there are no other reinforcements available that it might not return with."

Fenris nodded, then continued on out of the cabin and up on deck. He exchanged nods and smiles with a few members of the crew that he knew well, then crossed over to the Orlesian ship and spent some time just exploring it further, staring at the ornateness of the officer's cabins – even half-stripped, they were among the finest rooms he'd ever seen – and compared it to the crew's quarters, a cramped, darkened space with bunks stacked so close together you had to slide into them sideways, and sleep on your back. The crew – those that had survived the boarding – were currently packed into an empty compartment down in the hold, and likely had more room there than they'd had in their own quarters. The officers were all being held on Isabela's ship, chained up and restrained so that their could neither escape nor harm themselves before being turned over to Nevarran justice. He felt no particular pity for them; they'd earned their chains.

He took a small souvenir of the encounter for himself; a bit of gilded wood trim, knocked loose as Lavell's men carried off the more portable contents of one of the cabins. Most of a carved oak leaf, even the veining on the leaf delicately grooved into the curved wooden surface. He stood in the half-empty cabin looking at it lying in the palm of his hand, and wondered who had carved it, and if they'd liked their work, and whether they were human or elf. Elf, he decided, turning around to look at the band of trim as it circled the walls. There was an almost Dalish sensibility to it, the strip of deeply carved leaves of all different kinds, some of which he recognized – the easier ones, like oak and maple – and many of which he didn't. He wondered what would happen to the molding, after the ship was sold in Ferelden. Perhaps the lengths of carvings would be carefully pried free and sold to decorate someone's home. Or stay as an ignored reminder of the ship's Orlesian origins, while time and lack of care slowly destroyed them. Or simply destroyed outright, unvalued for their beauty because of their source. He hoped, briefly, that whomever acquired the ship _would_ value them, and the hours of labour that had gone into crafting them, then slipped the carved leaf into his belt pouch and returned to Isabela's ship, feeling that he had seen enough.

Anders and Feynriel were up on deck, sitting off to the side and watching the busy crews at work. Feynriel smiled when he saw Fenris; Anders nodded his head in greeting.

"Supper in Isabela's cabin tonight," he told the pair of them. "Dress up a little, if you can."

They both nodded. Anders rose, and patted Feynriel's arm, then walked off, heading below to their cabin. Feynriel watched him leave, a slight smile on his face, then blushed when he turned back and found Fenris watching him watching.

"He said I should talk to you," Feynriel said, flush deepening.

"About?" Fenris asked, eyebrows rising slightly.

"About... about him and I. And, um... sex," Feynriel whispered, looking uncomfortable.

Fenris frowned, puzzled, then nodded. "Come with me," he said, and lead the way below-decks and to Isabela's cabin. She was out; he gestured for Feynriel to take a seat, and fetched a bottle of wine from his stash, as well as a pair of goblets, pouring for both of them before taking a seat as well.

"What is it you need to talk to me about? Or ask me?" he asked.

Feynriel chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, then sighed, and looked down at the goblet held in his hands. "Anders is my first. Not just first man, but... first anyone. I was too young to be involved before I left for Tevinter, and then once I was there it was too dangerous to ever do so. Dangerous for me; dangerous for them, too. _You_ know," he said, giving Fenris a look.

"I do indeed know," Fenris agreed. "Connections can be used against you there; especially ones where you care anything for what happens to the other person."

Feynriel nodded, looking a little relieved that Fenris understood. "Anyway, we talked for a while last night – in his dreams, it's easier there – and he said that he thinks I need to have more, um... more experience. He says that he likes me and would be happy to continue, um... to continue with me, if that's what I want. But he says I should have wider experience too, so that I know enough to not mistake friendship, affection and lust for love. That if I'd been raised in a proper tower, as he was, that I'd likely have had a lot of experience by now; likely a mix of the bad and the good, but at least I'd be better able to judge; know enough to make decisions for myself about what I did or didn't want."

Fenris' eyebrows rose. "And he sent you to _me_ because...?"

"_Oh!_ Not to, um, not to seduce you or anything like that. Not that I don't think you're handsome or anything, because you are, and... _Maker_, I'm making a mess of this," Feynriel groaned, putting down his goblet and hiding his face, which had turned a rather deep red.

Fenris laughed – not unkindly – and reached over to pat Feynriel on the shoulder. "I understand. You think of me as a friend, as I do you."

"Yes!" Feynriel agreed fervently. "A friend, most of all. Not that I have anything _against_ sleeping with friends, since that's pretty much what I'm doing with Anders already, but..."

"But what we have is reasonably good friendship, and nothing more."

"Yes."

"So why _did_ Anders suggest you talk to me?" Fenris asked again.

"He said I should talk about all this to someone whom I trusted but that I wasn't involved with, because being involved with someone made things... messier, sometimes. And that you knew both the best of him and the worst of him, and he trusted you to be truthful if I needed it. And something I'm not sure I understand... he also said, if I wanted to see what it was like with a woman, that you were likely my shortest path to finding out."

Fenris laughed, then. And smiled broadly as he explained, seeing Feynriel's puzzled look. "He's referring to my friendship with Isabela, which has been going on since back when we were all still in Kirkwall. It's a very, um... _open_ relationship, I believe is the usual term. Isabela is very enthusiastic about sex. I am not, though I find it pleasant enough with trusted partners – and she's at the head of a very short list of such – so that we often sleep together when we're close enough geographically to do so."

Feynriel blushed slightly again. "I think I figured out that last part, when you moved in here instead of in with us."

Fenris laughed again. "I just keep my things in her cabin, and when we're both in the mood, yes, we share her bed. But I'm just as likely to sleep in a hammock instead; more likely, if anything. Or in with the crew, if she has a guest. And if you do have any interest in her, then yes, it would only take a word from me to let her know that her interest in you was returned, and you'd likely find yourself with an invitation to be such a guest in fairly short order."

Feynriel blinked, looking surprised, then frowned. "Wait; interest returned? You mean she's already...?"

Fenris grinned. "When she asked me who you were earlier, she referred to you as a ' delicious young man', which I am relatively certain means she already finds you to her tastes, which are quite broad. Consider your options before saying yes or no to the idea; we'll likely be in her company for at least a couple of days, on board and when we first land in Amaranthine. Which is, yes, rather short notice when you've only just taken a lover for the first time in the last few days, but I can think of few finer women to have a first experience with. In many ways she was _my_ first experience; the first pleasant one, certainly."

"All right. And thank you," Feynriel said, smiling briefly. "I'll think about it."

Fenris nodded. "Let me know what you decide."


	33. Chapter 33

Fenris snuggled up against Isabela, one arm hooked around her waist, and sighed contentedly. It was good to be back with her again, especially when there had been a while when he'd feared he might not ever be. He'd seen the moment that realization had sunk in for her, as well, when he'd told her the lengthy tale of his adventures since last leaving the Sea Spirit. She had concealed her reaction well enough that only someone intimately familiar with her would notice it, and of course he had; there had been that moment where she'd paused, frozen, eyes darting to meet his before she'd continued on dining as if unconcerned. But she knew, and he knew she did.

Hence tonight, the two of them together in her bed. They had not spoken at all, but simply re-established their relationship with each other in the best way possible. Silent, driven... and most of all, comforting. He had made love to her a second time after their first frantic coupling, slow and gentle, using mostly hands and mouth until flagging flesh had revived. He knew what a hole would be left in his own life if something ever happened to her. He did not doubt that even as seemingly casual as their relationship was, as many other people as she shared her bed with, that she would have felt a like void in her life if he'd died in Kirkwall.

He nuzzled into her hair, drawing in the scent of her, sea salt and sweat, a touch of spicy perfume, and something warm underneath that was pure Isabela. She chuckled, softly, and pressed back against him. "Considering a third round?" she asked.

He laughed. "Maker, no! Certainly not until after I've had a chance to rest and recuperate. We're neither of us that young any more."

"Speak for yourself," she said, an edge of arch pride in her voice, which drew a chuckle from him in turn. "Maybe I should have invited that luscious young man of Anders' to join me instead. I'm sure he has plenty of youthful energy. And he kept _looking_ at me over dinner. As if he wasn't quite sure whether to run away, or eat me up."

Fenris laughed, and told her why. She turned over in his arms, and kissed him on the end of the nose. "I hope he decides yes," she said, looking intrigued. "I'd enjoy teaching him a thing or two."

"Or three."

"Or four. Or more, yes." She grinned, and kissed him again, on the lips this time, one hand tangling into his sweat-dampened hair, the other drifting downwards. "Are you _sure_ you need to rest first?" she whispered against his mouth.

He laughed again, and nuzzled against her jawline and neck, kissing and nibbling at her throat as she arched her head backwards. "Regretfully, yes," he said, more than a little breathless with renewed desire, and gasped as she gave him a final squeeze and tug.

"Spoilsport," she said, and pouted.

"In the morning," he said, pretending severity.

"All right," she agreed, and snuggled up against him, the two of them shifting a little to find a comfortable position before sleep.

* * *

They'd drifted further west during the night than the two captains had expected they would; Isabela and Lavell briefly debated heading for Highever instead of Amaranthine, and the deciding factor came down to Isabela having better contacts in the east, and Lavell having a larger portion of cargo to offload there than in Highever, which would make room for him to take even more of the Orlesian vessel's bits and pieces.

They spent the day tacking back east along the coast, the three ships staying close enough together to remain in sight of each other without their courses interfering. The Sea Spirit made the best time, being the lightest loaded, while Captain Lavell's ship brought up the rear. It was mid-evening before they finally sailed into the harbour at Amaranthine, a day later than originally planned when they'd departed Ostwick. Isabela haggled with the harbourmaster, and with the help of a small bribe managed to get three berths together for the three ships. The Sea Spirit moved in to take a berth at one end of a long dock, the Orlesian went into a berth closer to shore on the opposite side, and Captain Lavell's ship took the end of the dock beside it, tying up opposite from Isabela's ship.

Captain Lavell came over to the Sea Spirit to briefly talk to Isabela again, but there being nothing they could really do so late about offloading any cargo or seeing to selling their captured prize, he soon when back across to his own ship, with promises to return for breakfast and business afterwards the next morning.

Fenris, to his amusement, found himself relegated to a hammock in Anders' cabin that night; Feynriel had decided late that afternoon that he was indeed interested in spending a night with Isabela. The three of them had all dined with her, sitting and talking for a while afterwards – all but Anders, who seemed pleased enough just to stretch out his long legs and cradle a glass of something strong in his hands, smiling as he listened to the other three talk. And then, once it grew late, Anders and Fenris simply rose and left together, leaving Feynriel behind. The look on his face as Anders and Fenris withdrew had been about equal parts of fascination and fear. Fenris had little doubt that the fear had gone within a very short time afterwards, and that the young mage was having a highly educational experience with Isabela.

He heard Anders turn over again in the lower hammock, and leaned over the side to look down at him. "He'll be fine," he said.

Anders sighed and nodded, and turned over again so he could more easily look up at Fenris himself. And sighed again, then pursed his lips and hummed, and summoned a wisp.

Fenris laughed, then wiggled to a slightly more comfortable position, and hummed as well. Only one wisp answered him this time; Hover, he guessed, as it took up station nearby and simply bobbed slowly up and down in place. Anders made a satisfied sound, and lay there watching the wisps for a while, then held his hand up toward them. The one he'd summoned moved toward him, settling down into the palm of his hand, and perched there for a while before drifting up and away again. Anders smiled, then looked at Fenris and made an inquisitive sound.

Fenris held out his hand as well, humming briefly. Hover stayed where it was for a while, then slowly drifted over until it was hovering over his hand and then it vanished, returning to the fade. Anders sighed, and his own wisp vanished as well.

"I still wonder why they come to me," Fenris said softly. "Curiosity, Feynriel said."

"Mmmm?"

He found himself explaining to Anders what Feynriel's theory had been; that they were intrigued by him because of his lyrium being what was likely the only sizable quantity of lyrium that was a part of a living being; part of a person, not merely a thing. That his sojourn in the Fade while being healed, as well as his attempts at humming along with them, were what had initially attracted their interest, and his oddity being what had kept them interested afterwards.

"Hmmm." Anders sounded more thoughtful than anything. And sleepy.

"We can talk about it more some other time, perhaps," Fenris said, and yawned, sleepy himself, it having been a busy two days, and him not having had enough sleep the night before. He smiled, remembering why he'd had so little, and finally drifted off.


	34. Chapter 34

Feynriel was already sitting at the table when Anders and Fenris entered to join Isabela for breakfast the next morning, stirring honey into a mug of tea and looking a little tired. Anders grinned as the young mage looked up; Fenris hid a smile as Feynriel blushed bright red.

Anders didn't attempt to say anything, just walked over and leaned down to kiss Feynriel, before taking the seat beside him. Fenris sat down beside Anders, and was just reaching to lift the lid on the serving dish in the middle of the table when Isabela entered, Captain Lavell in tow.

"Good morning, everyone!" she said, cheerfully, a wide, happy smile on her face, and took the seat beside Feynriel, leaving Captain Lavell to take the one between her and Fenris. She picked up the teapot and poured for both Lavell and herself, then added a splash of something from a flask to her own cup. She held up the flask and gave Lavell an enquiring look, but he merely smiled and shook his head.

"Not this early in the day, thank you," he said.

Breakfast proved to be a fried hash of onions, potatoes, and corned beef, greasy and filling. Most of the talking over the meal was done by Isabela and Lavell, sorting out a few remaining questions of the division of spoils from the captured ship, and its upcoming sale.

"I have good connections here in Amaranthine," Isabela assured the other captain. "Even if I can't sell it today, I can have a share of the projected sale price ready for you by midday, so you don't need to delay your own sailing once you've loaded on the cargo you wish to claim. And if it sells for more than is expected, I can make arrangements to deposit the difference with whomever you trust as a representative here, if that's acceptable?"

Lavell smiled. "Perfectly acceptable; you have a good name for honesty in business dealings, apart from with those who are your enemies, and since as far as I know I am not one of those, I am quite willing to trust your word on it."

Isabela flashed him an amused grin, and nodded. "Excellent. Why don't the two of us go talk to my contact and see what he believes he can sell the ship for? And then I'll go see my banker for your share."

"Certainly," Lavell agreed, having finished his own breakfast, and rose with her, bowing distractedly to the other three before following her away.

A brief silence fell after the two had left, then Anders nudged Feynriel to get his attention, and looked questioningly at him, one eyebrow arching high, mouth quirked with an amused smile. Feynriel flushed dark red again, and then laughed. "Yes, I enjoyed it. Very much," he said, and looked down at his plate for a moment, folding his arms on the table before him. "And you're right... it was good to have a, umm... broader experience of these things."

Feynriel glanced at Fenris for a moment, then turned his head to meet Anders' eyes. "You're right, too, that it's helped me to not be confused about things. To sort out how I feel for you, that I just... I do like you a lot. And..." he trailed off, blushing again, then leaned over and kissed Anders on the cheek, the affection in the move clear. "Thank you," the mage said softly.

Anders smiled, looking pleased, and patted Feynriel's shoulder companionably. Fenris hid a smile as he returned his attention to his own plate. "When should we depart?" Fenris asked. "How long is it from here to... what was it... Vigil's Keep?"

Anders grimaced, then tapped Feynriel on the arm. "It's a little over half a day's walk from here," Feyrniel said. Fenris gave him a mildly surprised look, raising an eyebrow. Feynriel flushed slightly. "We've talked about it recently. In his dreams."

Fenris nodded, remembering only then that Feynriel had previously mentioned that the two of them talked in Anders' dreams; which he supposed made perfect sense, as Anders could communicate far more easily there than he could in the waking world. Likely the mages' friendship had first begun to turn to more in that place where one's inner self was most easily revealed, and hardest to conceal. He supposed it made good sense for Anders to have told Feynriel more about where they were going, whatever short-term plans for the travel the mage might have, while they were there, in dreams, where Anders didn't have to struggle to shape words with mutilated tongue or crippled hands.

"And we're leaving... when?" he asked.

Feynriel glanced at Anders. "Later today, possibly... though tomorrow would be better."

"Oh? Why?" Fenris asked.

Feynriel flushed again. "Isabela has invited me to spend a second night with her. And, um... and Anders, if he wants to," he trailed off, and looked hopefully at the older man.

Anders looked startled – clearly this was news to him, then thoughtful, and then smiled, all in a very short space. He nodded slowly, then looked uneasily at Fenris, likely only then remembering that the elf was in a relationship of a sort with Isabela.

Fenris couldn't help himself; he laughed. "She'll never forgive me if I make the two of you leave today, short of some reason of considerable importance to do so. All right. We'll plan to leave tomorrow morning then."

Anders said nothing, but the smile he was trying to hide spoke volumes.


	35. Chapter 35

Fenris regretted parting with Isabela again; they'd had so little time together, even with him having spent much of the previous afternoon in her cabin with her, and a good chunk of that in her bed. But such was the nature of their relationship; he had commitments on land, with Feynriel, and she needed to take her prisoners off to Cumberland, and perhaps at some point some months down the road their separate journeys would bring them back together again. So he waited patiently while she said good-bye to the two mages, then exchanged a long hug and a short kiss with her, and then he left, following the two mages down the gangplank to the docks. They looked back, he did not, at least not at first, and then did some minutes later, as they stepped off the wood of the dock and onto the cobbled stone surface of the quay. She was already out of sight again by then, gone back to her own work. He smiled; that was as it should be, of course.

Amaranthine was a large city, and even with much of it having been rebuilt with a more sensible street plan since much of it has been destroyed by fire in the plague year after the blight war – straighter, broader streets that only curved as much as was necessary to follow the contours of the land as it rose away from the bay – it took them almost an hour to walk from the docks to the city gates, having to pass through many smaller gates along the way. The city was divided into many interior wards, the walls serving both for defence in war and to help prevent fires from spreading. Much help that had been in the plague year, but then those fires had been deliberately set and spread, fire being one of the few things that would adequately destroy blighted corpses and soil.

Beyond the city gate was a sprawl of additional buildings to either side of the road, the city having begun to expand beyond its existing walls. Judging by the surveyor's stakes and piles of materials, the walls were in the process of being extended to include new wards to either side of the road. Beyond that was fields and farms, the road changing from cobbled stone to a corduroy surface of split logs and sand, well-packed down by frequent traffic. That eventually ended, as fields turned to forest, the road becoming a well-rutted surface of mud and gravel.

It was a pleasant walk, the forest alive with birdsong, the day warming but with a slight, pleasant breeze. Anders walked along in silence, head down and shoulders hunched. Clearly not looking forward to reaching their destination, even though it had been chosen by him. Feynriel walked at his side, equally silent, but looking around at everything. The trees here were a mix of types largely unseen in the north, with a scattering of dark conifers in among the brighter greens of the leafed trees. The further south you went, the more pines and firs there supposedly were, the northern trees becoming rarer and smaller than their counterparts in the north; they didn't like the cold, which in a bad winter was said to break them open as surely as any woodsman's axe might. Far enough south, and even the conifers vanished, it was said, leaving plains covered in low hummocks of moss and grasses, and eventually lichen-covered rock, where stone was seen at all; giving way to year-round snow and ice, somewhere down there at the world's end.

Fenris had no desire to wander that far himself and see if the tales were true. And thankfully their journey today was nowhere near as long a one as that would have taken. They stopped briefly in late morning, where a small lake came within sight of the road, the two separated only by a sloping shelf of worn-smooth rock, warmed by the sun. A pleasant place to sit and watch the lake while eating some of the last of their travel rations.

"This seems a very empty country," Fenris said after a while. "Though beautiful."

Anders grunted. Feynriel spoke up. "Most of the people live along the coast, around the inland sea, and the river that runs from it to the coast, and in a large area of prime farmland to the west from here, that's bordered by all three – the Bannorn. Much of the rest of the country is largely like this – wilderness, crossed by a handful of roads and with scattered small settlements."

"Small wonder Orlais saw it as ripe for the picking, then."

"Yes," Feynriel agreed.

Anders made a grunting sound of agreement as well, then rose to his feet, dusting off the seat of his clothes and turning to look at the road; clear signal that he felt it was time to continue.

Another hour of walking brought Vigil's Keep into view, on a rise overlooking a river that Feynriel named as the Hafter. Their dirt road had joined a large stone road; one of the old Imperial roads, built and maintained by magic in the distance past, and now slowly crumbling. They crossed the river on a substantial stone bridge, and left the Imperial road again to follow a winding dirt road around the base of the rise and then up it, passing through a small area of fields to a village nestled up against the walls of the keep. It was an imposing structure, built on a sloping angle of land between two arms of the high hills backing it, hills that rose even higher than the keep's tallest tower, and mostly steep enough to present a challenge to anyone trying to approach the keep from that direction.

As they drew closer to the keep, Anders went, if possible, even more silent than he had been; his back stiffly upright, head raised now as his eyes looked over the structure, jaw set. His hand were clenched, as much as they could be, and a faint tick twitched the flesh of his cheek beneath his eye. Once again Fenris found himself wondering why the mage had chosen _this_ as a refuge to return to, when he so obviously dreaded doing so.

The gate to the keep was guarded, a pair of men in polished silverite armour standing to either side of the opening. They looked over the three with interest, but made no move to stop or question them as they entered the outer ward of the keep. There were more houses here, and a couple of shops, an obvious continuation of the small village outside the walls. Fenris and Feynriel looked around with interest, taking in the sights; Anders had eyes only for the next gate, atop an easily defensible small platform of stone, leading into an inner ward.

This gate was more closely guarded; another pair of men in brightly polished armour. "Your business here?" one asked, tilting a pike to block their path.

Anders looked to Feynriel. "We're here to speak to the Warden-Commander," the younger man said. "If he'll see us."

"Want to join the wardens, eh?" the man said, and lifted his pike. "Go ahead; it's not one of his open court days, but the gatekeeper can send word and ask if he'll see you anyway."

They didn't correct the man's assumption, simply heading on through the gate and into the inner ward. There were more buildings here, mostly of well-dressed stone; a barracks, another area of houses through a smaller gate off to one side – possibly where servants and their dependants lived – and a large open-air smithy. Adjacent to it was a large gate, the opening partially filled with a half-raised portcullis and giving on to a flight of stairs up to a very large pair of wooden doors; a good design, difficult to bring a ram into play with those steep stairs there, Fenris noted with interest. Another silverite-clad soldier stood to one side of the opening, clearly keeping an eye on traffic in and out of the keep.

Feynriel led the way over to her, and asked if they might speak to the Warden-Commander. "I'll ask," she said, and whistled sharply. In under a minute a page came dashing out of the doors and ran down, stopping and looking expectantly at the woman after only a brief glance at the three of them. "Three men asking to see the Warden-Commander," she said. The page nodded and darted off again. They waited.

It wasn't long until the page reappeared. "Come ahead," he told the three of them, then turned and led the way indoors, moving at a walking pace now instead of his previous headlong dash. They followed.

The doors at the top led into a large room, narrow stairs at either side leading to raised platforms, with an interior gate at the far end leading to a corridor that narrowed rapidly. Fenris was mildly impressed despite himself; an indoor killing-ground, for dealing with any invaders who managed to get this far into the keep. Beyond that was a twisting warren of small passages, opening into large rooms that were often divided in height, providing additional areas where a small force could easily hold off a larger one. Eventually the small corridors took them to a broader one, and from there the page led them through a large metal-strapped door and into what was clearly the great hall of the keep. A huge brazier burned in the middle of the space, warming the room. There was a throne-like seat at the far end, on a small dais; a seat currently unoccupied, though a large man dressed in fine clothing of blue, grey and silver stood nearby, frowning slightly as he talked with a dwarven woman, her face heavily marked with dark tattoos. She was dressed in the blue-and-silver armour of the Grey Wardens.

Anders took the lead, walking down the length of the hall and stopping about halfway between the brazier and the man. The two looked around, the man – a monster of a man, taller than Anders and broader in the shoulders than even Sebastian or Carver – frowned, and tilted his head curiously. "You're a Grey Warden," he said flatly to Anders, then glanced past him toward Feynriel and Fenris. "And you two are not. What is it you wish to see me about?" He turned his attention back to Anders.

In answer, Anders took off his hat, raising his chin stubbornly, one hand rising to push his hair back from his face.

The dwarven woman gasped. "Anders!" she exclaimed, then froze, looking uncertainly at the large man.

He'd frozen as well, stiff as any statue. When he moved again, it was to stalk toward Anders, his eyes narrowing in some mixture of disbelief and anger. "_Anders_," he growled, one hand reaching out to grasp the mage's chin and turn his face from side to side. "It _is_ you. What happened? Where have you been all these years?"

Anders opened his mouth and made some harsh sound, displaying his lack of tongue. The man snatched back his hand, eyes widening in shock. "Maker's _cock_... what happened to you!?" he exclaimed, then frowned and turned his attention to Feynriel and Fenris, as being more obviously able to answer. "What happened? Who did this to him?" he snapped out, frowning angrily.

"It is a long story," Fenris spoke up.

The man stared at him a moment, eyes narrowing, then abruptly nodded, and turned back to the dwarven woman. "See to what I said; I'll have further instructions for you later. I'll be in my office if anyone needs me," he said, and then turned to sweep his gaze over the three. "Come," he ordered, and turned away, not even looking back to see whether or not they followed him.


	36. Chapter 36

The Warden-Commander only paused once on the way to his office, stopping a page and sending him running in search of wine and food. His office was a couple of floors higher in the keep, a brightly sun-lit room with sizable windows looking out over the grounds of the keep and the road below, his desk placed before it. He waved them toward a cluster of nearby seats, and walked over to draw the drapes closed himself before throwing himself into the oversized chair behind the desk. He looked the three of them over in silence, then abruptly spoke. "I suppose introductions are in order. I'm Arl Aedan Cousland, Commander of the Grey in Ferelden. Anders I know. And you two are?" He looked enquiringly at Feynriel first of all, seated closest to Anders as he was.

"Feynriel. A mage, originally of Kirkwall, though I have spent some time in the Tevinter Empire since first leaving there."

"And?"

"Fenris. A warrior, originally from Tevinter. I resided in Kirkwall for some years, but have been a mainly a wanderer for some time."

"Those marks in your skin... lyrium?" Aedan asked, one eyebrow rising questioningly.

"Yes," Fenris said, surprised. Few recognized the marks for what they were, and never on so short an acquaintance.

"I've heard of you then; you were the companion of that Hawke woman, were you not? And involved in the rescue of Nathaniel Howe from the Deep Roads."

"Yes," Fenris agreed.

Aedan's eyes moved back to Anders. They were a particularly pale blue, standing out starkly against his tanned skin and black hair; it made his gaze very intense, unnervingly so. Anders said nothing, simply gritting his teeth and raising his chin fractionally again. "I take it you were in Kirkwall all these years?"

Fenris answered. "He was, at least at first. In more recent years he has resided in Starkhaven."

Those startling eyes turned back to him. "Tell me," Aedan said, settling back in his chair.

So he did. It took considerable time. The wine and food arrived; Aedan and Anders both ate, Feynriel picking a little at some food but mainly sitting silently, listening. Fenris waved away the food, but accepted a glass of wine, sipping at it occasionally to moisten his mouth but concentrating mostly on telling the lengthy story in good order, or at least what he knew of it. Anders' years in Kirkwall as a companion to Marian Hawke; his in-dwelling spirit and the actions that Justice/Vengeance had led him to. The first mention of the spirit drew a loud "Hah!" from Aedan, but otherwise he listened in focused silence, face impassive, not giving away whatever his thoughts or feelings might have been. The end of things in Kirkwall; Anders' flight on his own. Sebastian's search for Marian, and how it had led he and Fenris to discover her and Anders both, and in what circumstances.

Aedan's gaze returned to Anders during that section. The mage was staring down at a half-full glass held tightly with both hands, his jaw clenched, the faintest of tremors shaking his hands. Fenris only glanced at him the once, then kept his own eyes averted as he spoke, as flatly as possible, about Anders' return to physical health in Starkhaven. The extent of his damage, physical and mental both. And, finally, skipping Fenris' own sickness and recovery and any of Feynriel's background except the most necessary points – that he was a _somniari_, and what that meant – he gave an abbreviated version of the story of how they had recently succeeded in restoring Anders to himself, and Justice's departure. Their decision to come here, and why.

A silence fell when he was finally done, Aedan leaning back in his chair, one hand supporting his chin, the fingers curved over his mouth, those intense eyes shifting back and forth over the three. He abruptly rose, and began pacing back and forth. "There are clearly things you're not telling me. I will not press you on those points, or at least not yet; I doubt they're important to the basic tale. You may stay, for now, all of you – I must think on this. I will speak to you again tomorrow. Anders, you're confined to your quarters until I say otherwise. Your friends may come and go as they please, though I request you both to remain here in the keep for now. Speak now if this is unacceptable to you." A brief pause, only a few breaths in length, during which none of them spoke. "Very well," he said, giving a short, sharp nod, then walked to the door. "Come with me."

He led them to the office of his seneschal – an old, white-haired man named Varel, who moved stiffly but had a clear look of authority about him. A few words from Aedan were all it took to inform him of who they were and what Aedan wished done, then Aedan departed, leaving them in his hands. Varel had given Anders a look of sudden recognition at his name; that was his only reaction apart from nodding agreement to Aedan's commands.

"A suite, or do you prefer to room separately?" Varel asked them after the Warden-Commander had left.

"A suite, please. Two bedrooms should be enough," Feynriel answered.

The man nodded, unhooked a ring of keys from behind his desk, and led them to a room in a different wing of the keep. "The mess hall and communal baths are downstairs," he said as he unlocked a door and pushed it open, then gestured down the hallway. "The garderobe is at that end of the hall. You're responsible for making your own beds and emptying your own chamberpots. Anders, I assume you still remember your way around the place?"

Anders grunted and nodded agreement.

"I'll leave you then. Anders can show you the way to the mess hall when it's time to eat, and the baths either tonight or in the morning, if you need them; apart from that he's to remain in his room. I'll trust you to follow Arl Aedan's orders on that, Anders, without need of a guard on your door." Another nod of agreement. "Good. A page will come by tomorrow to show you to Arl Aedan's chambers when he's ready to speak to you further." And he left, not even having bothered to enter the rooms he'd opened for them.

They went inside. There was a small – a very small – sitting room, with two doors opening off of it; a larger bedroom, and a smaller, suitable for a man-at-arms and his squire. Fenris took the squire's room; the mages took the larger bedroom. It took them very little time to settle in, each having only the one pack of belongings. "I'm going for a walk," Fenris announced after they'd all returned to their sitting room. "I'd like to see more of this place."

Feynriel nodded. "I'll stay here," he said. "I've had enough walking around today."

Anders said nothing, merely settling down into a chair near the window, and staring out of it, clearly in no mood to talk.


	37. Chapter 37

He was beginning to doubt now that returning to Ferelden, and specifically to Vigil's Keep, had been one of his best ideas. He'd been looking forward to it for the first half of their trip, thinking more about things like seeing his old friends again – Sigrun, Nathaniel, Oghren, even Velanna if she hadn't given up on shemlen madmen and returned to her beloved forests – than about the _other_ person he would have to face once here.

Aedan. Aedan Cousland, big as a barn door, and as stiff with honour and duty as if someone had rammed a stick made of it as far up his ass as they could reach. And likely, therefore, to be extremely disappointed in a certain mage, namely himself, for having high-tailed it out of Amaranthine over a decade before, leaving a clutch of very dead templars in his wake.

It had only been after they'd set sail from Hercinia that it had really begun to sink in; that he was returning to Ferelden. Home, for most of his life, at least as much as he'd ever had one. He'd spent his childhood travelling back and forth across the bannorn with his parents, peasant immigrants from the Anderfels drawn there by the need for workers following the end of the war with Orlais; then after his mage powers had so spectacularly – and frighteningly – manifested, he'd been hauled off to the Circle tower in Lake Calenhad. And lived there in Kinloch Hold for many years, learning how to actually use his powers, in between his frequent and generally short-lived escapes.

It had seemed a game to him, at first, those escapes. A game which had turned from fun, from nothing serious, to something far too serious without any real warning. The templars had always been strict, and annoyed over his escapes, and of course he'd heard from some of the older mages, those who'd spent time in other Circles, that they could be far more strict than they had been, if they decided to. He hadn't really believed it; Greagoir and Irving were stern, but they weren't cruel, and the Knight-Commander certainly didn't tolerate the abuses that he'd heard whispered of as being commonplace in other towers. It still happened, occasionally, but it was an aberration here, and any templar caught at it was both severely disciplined and moved off to a post where they didn't interact daily with mages.

Or at least, that was the way it was until his late teens. Until the new templars arrived; a group sent from Orlais, nominally under Greagoir's command but in truth reporting only to their own Knight-Captain, and he directly to the Knight-Divine in Val Royeax, and the group of them therefore immune to much of the discipline Greagoir enforced on his own men. There to investigate reported _laxness_ of the Knight-Commander. He was, it was felt, _too kind_ to the mages within his jurisdiction. And those templars were perfectly content to exercise their control of and power over the mages in ways that Greagoir had always forbidden. Things had changed, after their arrival.

Which Anders learned for himself the hard way when it was _they_ that hunted him down and dragged him back after his next escape. He'd been shocked, at first; then defiant, unable to believe they'd transgress the Knight-Commander's rules. Fright came far too late to curb his tongue; and pain and terror close on its heals. And after that... shame. Despair. Anger, eventually, a fury that never left him, not for many long years afterwards. It had been a cold anger that shaped his every action afterwards, that turned his escapes from casual curious wanderings to a determined attempt to _leave_, and to never return. The harsher and harsher punishments his escapes earned him did not stop him; they merely hardened his resolve. Even that last year, spent in solitary, as terrible as it had been... he had focused his thoughts on only one thing. Escape. _Flight_. And almost succeeded; were it not for the message that drew him north to Amaranthine in search of his phylactery, he _would_ have escaped. He had made it as far as the Denerim docks before finding the message from Namaya at one of their old drops, the elven smuggler he'd become entangled with on one of his previous escapes, and often recontacted on subsequent ones.

He'd headed to Amaranthine, hoping she was still there, and been captured on entering the city. Only luck had prevented him from being taken to Denerim and put to death; luck, and an unexpected incursion of darkspawn at Vigil's Keep where they'd stopped for the night. The darkspawn killed the templars holding him, the last of the darkspawn dying to his flames just as Aedan Cousland, the Hero of Ferelden, happened on the scene.

He'd been frightened for a moment, seeing only another big, well-armoured man; but it was a griffon his armour was marked with, not the flaming sword, and at Anders perhaps too-rapid protestation that it hadn't been he that had slain his guards – true, though in his secret heart of hearts he knew that he might have saved one or two of them, if he'd tried harder – Aedan had simply given him an evaluative look, and then gestured for him to fall in with the armed woman accompanying him, and they'd fought their way through the keep.

A nightmarish, almost non-stop running fight through the place, pausing only to speak to a dying man, and for Aedan to exchange a few brief words with the dwarf they picked up partway through. Aedan had been... impressive. So had Oghren, actually, the dwarf becoming focused in a fight in a way that Anders came to learn he rarely was otherwise, Anders and the woman – what had her name been? M-something. Mary? Mairead? Something like that. Doubtless Aedan remembered; _he_ was good at remembering the small details, even the name of a woman he'd known for less than a day between introduction and death. Likely remembered all the more clearly because she _had_ died, in the initiation ceremony that had seen Anders and Oghren become wardens.

He'd hated Aedan at first; hated him for conscripting him, hated him for putting him through a sickening ritual that might have killed him, and which had sentenced him to a significantly shorter life. Welcome to the Grey Wardens... our retirement plan is a sword to the gut or an axe to the head by some random darkspawn, down in the dark of the Deep Roads, if nothing else kills you first.

He had, in time, come to love Aedan, or at least respect and trust him, as they all did. Aedan was good at that; inspiring loyalty in those who followed him. Anders would have followed him to the Black City and back, if he'd asked it; complained about it, sure, but he'd have gone. As he'd gone so many times into the Deep Roads at the man's back, hating every minute of it but sticking with his leader.

Aedan was the one that went, instead; summoned off to some meeting of Warden-Commanders up north, doubtless to make some form of report about the Blight, and events afterwards. Aedan hadn't been sure he could trust the other wardens by then, not after the conspicuous absence of any help from them during the Blight; so he'd taken Nathaniel and Sigrun and a group of the newer recruits with him as bodyguard, left Velanna in charge while he was away. And while he was gone, some poncy Orlesian warden showed up out of the blue with a dozen other wardens and took charge of the Keep, and the arling along with it. Velanna's protests were ignored – she was, after all, merely an elf, and female, and worst of all _Dalish_ – Oghren faded into the woodwork, and suddenly they had a _templar_ among the wardens, and Anders couldn't turn around without finding Rolan at his back, watching him.

He'd managed to sneak away only once, down to the deep cellars where Justice lived, the cool helping to slow the decay of the shell the spirit inhabited. The Orlesians hadn't known he was there; by the time they did find him, there was nothing to find but an old, partially-mummified corpse that must have been missed in the clean-up after the darkspawn incursion. Kristoff had been one of theirs; they gave his remains a proper burning, at least.

Anders never knew what it was that made the templar suspect he was now _more_ than just Anders. Or whether Rolan had intended to betray Anders to the Chantry all along. In any case, he and Justice had ended up forced to flee. He'd headed for Kirkwall, knowing Karl was there...

_Karl_. The thought of his old friend and once-lover pained him, in a way it hadn't in years. Too late, too late that they'd learned that tranquillity could be reversed. Years too late, for Karl. His hand tightened on the edge of the windowsill, flesh whitening with the force of his grip. That was the worst part; the knowing that they had been _so close_ to the answer that night, when Justice's emergence in mere proximity to Karl had been enough to wake him from his tranquil state. If only there'd been time; if only they had thought things through, been attentive enough to realize that they'd just seen the impossible. If only they'd taken Karl with them, instead of... his throat closed, remembering the feel of the knife in his hand as it slid between Karl's ribs, finding his heart. A fast death, and at the time he'd thought it a merciful one, knowing how greatly his friend had feared being made tranquil. Remembering the pleading note in Karl's voice, as he begged Anders not to leave him this way.

Of all the deaths he had ever caused in his life, and the total was a number he avoided ever thinking of, that was the one death he would never stop regretting. Especially now, knowing that it hadn't been a necessary one. But that was in the past now, years past, and he must think now of the present, and of whatever he could make of his future, now that he had one again, for however long it lasted.

Strange, to be whole again, his memories of his time in Starkhaven mostly just a series of random, disjointed memories, more dreamlike in nature than feeling like anything _real_ to him. Perhaps unsurprising, considering how much of him had been in the fade during those years, lost in the realm of dreams. Not all had returned; some parts of him were lost forever, gone into the void perhaps, in any case beyond recovery. His old anger, that he'd lived with for so many years that it had seemed as much a part of his as his flesh and bones, as the breath that gave him life; that was gone, too, and he couldn't even tell if it was because it had been lost in the fade, or merely that the long years in darkness without it had moved him beyond it. He could remember the burning outrage he'd felt for so many years, the events that had raised that feeling in him, yet the feeling itself did not return.

He supposed he shouldn't be surprised that he was changed entirely, as altered by more recent events as those years-distant events that had changed and shaped him in his youth.

That was another thing he regretted; the passage of time. Years that he could never recover; years of his already shortened life gone beyond recall, spent in near-mindless darkness. Especially when... he glanced over at Feynriel, absorbed in writing in his journal. Especially when there were people in the world he still cared for, or could learn to care for, and people who cared for him. Even Fenris, surprisingly enough, among that very small and select group now. Marian. Sebastian, another surprise, in many ways an even bigger one than Fenris had been. He had destroyed so much that the man held dear, and yet in the end Sebastian had still found it in himself to be able to forgive him. It was... humbling, in some ways. Especially since he didn't think he could ever have been so forgiving himself. Definitely not.

He owed them; owed all of them. If he spent what was left of his life, trying to be worthy of the life they had returned to him; that would be time well spent. Even if he failed, in the end, it was an effort worth making. And the start of it would be tomorrow, when he had to face Aedan, and Aedan's likely anger, and take the first steps towards reshaping his life toward better ends. Only then, after Aedan had come to some decision, would he really know if this had been a wise choice, or utter foolishness.


	38. Chapter 38

When the page came to take Anders to see Aedan, he was told he could bring an interpreter along as well, if he wanted to. Anders dithered only briefly before looking rather desperately at Fenris.

Fenris gave him a single, short nod. "I'll come."

Only then did Anders look to Feynriel, hoping the younger mage wouldn't be hurt by him having chosen the elf over him; but Feynriel simply nodded too. "Do you have your pens?" he asked.

Anders nodded, patting his belt pouch, then stepped closer and gave Feynriel a brief kiss on the cheek, before turning and following the page away, Fenris pacing along behind him. The elf left his sword behind in their rooms, but being what he was, he was never truly unarmed, which Anders found obscurely comforting. Not that he really expected Aedan to want to do anything... _final_ to him, but having the warrior at his side was still somehow reassuring.

The page led them not to Aedan's office, but further up, to the roof of a flat-topped round tower. There were a pair of benches there, a large water-filled stone tub planted with lilies and with a few colourful fish swimming in its depths, and other tubs of assorted sizes, filled with plants. Wildflowers and shrubs, mostly, but there were three trees as well, none much taller than Aedan. Aedan himself was sitting on one of the benches, head turned to the side to gaze out over the forested hills in back of the keep.

He turned and looked at them, then nodded to the other bench. "Sit," he said, voice carefully neutral.

They sat. Aedan studied them both in silence for a couple of minutes. "I have questions I would like answered," he said after a while, looking over at Anders. "Are you able to answer?"

Anders nodded, and tapped his belt pouch, then looked to Fenris.

"He has a special pen he is able to use, to write answers. Feynriel and I are also both used to sorting out what sounds he can make. But writing is far easier, especially for anything more than two or three words in length," Fenris said softly.

Aedan nodded, then looked over to where the page was lingering near the door. "Arann! Go fetch some paper from my office. And an inkwell. And have someone bring up a small table as well."

The page disappeared through the door. Aedan turned back to look at the two of them again, his attention mostly on Fenris this time. "Nathaniel was impressed by your abilities, when he met you," he suddenly said. "Can you truly reach through things as if you are ghost?"

Fenris' answer was silent; a suddenly flaring of his brands, then he lifted one hand and stabbed it through the stone surface of the bench beside him, hand clearly visible underneath for a moment before he withdrew it and allowed his powers to subside. "Yes," he said, dryly enough to bring a slight smirk to Anders' lips.

"Impressive," Aedan said. "Especially since you didn't fall through the bench when you did that. You have some degree of control over what you do or don't interact with?"

"Yes. Enough to tear a man's heart from his chest, if needed. Or remove a cork from a wine bottle using nothing but my hand, without shattering the bottle or harming the cork in any way."

"Useful," Aedan said, and fell silent again, studying Fenris now. "Any interest in becoming a Grey Warden?"

"No."

"I could conscript you."

"You could _try_." Beyond dry now. Perhaps 'glacial' would be the right term.

Aedan stared at Fenris, expressionless, and then suddenly smiled, his whole face lighting up for a moment. "Perhaps not," he conceded. And then turned attention back to Anders, face going still and emotionless again. "The first thing I'll want to know about is what happened here, from your point of view, after I left for the north."

Anders nodded. He had anticipated that question, and removed a folded wad of paper from one of his belt pouches, holding it wordlessly out to Aedan. Aedan's eyebrows rose fractionally, and the slightest of smiles lifted his lips for a moment. "Well done," the man said, leaning forward to take the pages from Anders. He settled back in his chair, unfolding them, and began to read.

Anders busied himself with taking out and preparing his pen for use, then sat quietly watching Aedan's face. It was set in an intent frown that gave away nothing of his thoughts, his only movement the back-and-forth flick of his eyes and the occasional shift of position as he moved a sheet from the front to the back of the stack. The page eventually returned with parchment and an inkwell, followed by a guard carrying a small side-table. They quickly positioned both where Anders could reach them, the page pulling a handful of small carved stone weights out of one pocket and tipping them onto the pile of paper to keep the slight breeze from carrying the sheets away, then he and the guard retreated out of view. Anders set down his pen on the table, and continued waiting.

Finally Aedan finished. He grunted, folded the papers and put them away in one of his own belt pouches, then sat gazing back at Anders in silence for a couple of minutes. Finally he spoke. "Oghren carried word to Denerim once he, Varel, and Mistress Woolsey saw what those Orlesian wardens were up to with _my_ Arling. King Alistair showed up not two days after your disappearance to make it clear that foreign Grey Wardens had no business in moving in and attempting to take over a key Ferelden territory, and sent the lot of them back to Orlais. And then named Oghren as acting Arl of Amaranthine until my return. Had you remained... well, too late for might-have-beens. _Why_ didn't you return?"

Anders shrugged. "Oo ains'ous."

"Too dangerous," Fenris muttered in interpretation.

"To you?" Aedan asked, looking annoyed.

Anders quickly shook his head in negation, then tapped his chest. "Oo _ains'sous_," he repeated. "Meh nn dusdis."

"You and Justice?" Aedan asked. "Too dangerous?"

Anders nodded emphatically, then looked to Fenris as the elf cleared his throat.

"He is correct in thinking that he and Justice were very dangerous," Fenris said quietly, Aedan's attention snapping back over to him as well.

"Explain."

So Fenris did; at considerable length. Anders gritted his jaw, trembling hands resting in his lap as he listened. It seemed so unreal now, hearing Fenris quietly explaining all the things the elf had witnessed Anders and Justice – or Vengeance, as he seemed to be at times – doing while in Kirkwall. He blinked rapidly when Fenris spoke of the girl Ella, and how close she had come to death because of him and Justice, unable to meet Aedan's eyes yet feeling the man's gaze on him. And closed them entirely while listening to Fenris' final dispassionate description of the search for selapetrae and what use Anders had put it to.

Another of those very long, thought-filled silences, once Fenris had finished speaking. Finally, a deep sigh from Aedan. "And now you have returned at last. What for? What is it you wish to do here?"

Anders forced himself to look up, and meet Aedan's eyes. He shrugged. "Oo 'eel," he said quietly, lifting one hand and allowing a brief flare of magic to light it.

Aedan's expression remained hard and cold. "To heal... and what if I say you must come along on expeditions into the Deep Roads again? And fight down there alongside the rest of us? Are you even able to do that? _Can_ you do that, if I ask it of you?"

He shivered, thinking of how much he hated the Deep Roads. The long dark passages, the nauseating feeling of darkspawn when they drew close enough to sense, the fear... but there could be only one answer, to Aedan. "'Es."

Aedan sat and studied him again, face still impassive. "I have more questions," he said, and gestured to the still unused pile of paper. "Write."

It took a long time; the rest of the morning and into early afternoon, Aedan asking question after question, probing into the details of Anders' life from the time he'd left Vigil's Keep with Rolan to his return. Endless questions about the clinic, about Kirkwall, about events he'd witnessed or taken part in or in some cases merely heard of. Some he hadn't heard of at all, until Aedan asked about them. Fenris shifted in his seat once or twice, as if he might know answers to some of Aedan's questions, but the man merely glanced coldly at him the one time the elf made a sound as if to speak, and the warrior fell silent again.

Anders' hand was cramping and the page had had to be summoned to fetch more paper before Aedan finally seemed satisfied. He rose to his feet abruptly, gathering up the scattered sheets of paper and rolling them up. "Join me for lunch while I consider this," he said, and glanced briefly at Fenris. "You may attend as well."

He turned and walked over to the door, pausing there while Anders hastily cleaned and put away his pen, and resumed walking as soon as Anders and Fenris had both rose to follow him. "Have food and drink for three brought to my room, then see that's all cleaned up and put away," Aedan told the still-waiting page as they walked past the boy, who was crouched down with his back against the wall, playing jacks on the floor a couple of paces inside the door. The page nodded, grabbing up his toy and darting past them to race off down the stairs. "Slower!" Aedan shouted after him. "Your mother will have my hide if you break your neck running on the blighted stairs!"

That made Anders have to hide a smile, as well as wonder whose son the page was. Aedan glanced at him briefly, then spoke again, having seemingly divined his thoughts. "My nephew Arann," he said, then fell silent again for the remainder of the walk to his quarters.

Anders was surprised for a moment, and then found himself thinking just how many years it had been since he'd left Ferelden; Fergus Cousland had been remarried before he left; it was indeed long enough for him to have had a child, and for the child to be old enough for fostering. And it certainly made sense that Fergus would send the boy to his brother for training; the two of them had always been close, and the Arl of Amaranthine did at least technically still report to the Teyrn of Highever, though in practise he reported directly to King Alistair; but then, that too might have changed during Anders' years away.

Servants were already beginning to set the table for lunch by the time they reached Aedan's quarters, a sizable suite knocked together out of what had once been a warren of smaller guest and servant rooms. Aedan having no wish to inhabit rooms that Howe had once lived in, he'd had the old Howe family apartments converted into simpler quarters for the senior Grey Wardens. The once-magnificent rooms had been striped down to bare stone, and then the space re-apportioned into small suites sized for one to two people to live in. The guest quarters – such as where Anders, Fenris and Feynriel were currently staying – had been left largely untouched, merely being partially redecorated in order to remove all trace of Howe ownership of the keep.

Aedan waved for the pair of them to take seats as soon as the servants had moved out of the way, and had wine served while they waited for their meal to arrive. Fenris sniffed cautiously at his goblet, then smiled in approval and took a large sip, holding it in his mouth for a moment before swallowing, a look of pleasure on his face. Anders barely touched his lips to his own glass; the years of sobriety while merged with Justice had lost him much of his taste for alcoholic beverages. Besides, he was going to be at enough of a disadvantage dealing with Aedan without adding being drunken to the list of obstacles to deal with.

The food, when it arrived, was a simple meal; stewed chicken and leeks, served over a mound of barley. Anders ignored the implements on the table, and instead fished his spoon out of his belt pouch, Fenris leaning over to silently help him position it to where he could grip it properly. Aedan paused for a moment to watch, then grunted and returned to his own eating. Fenris ate well, then sat back in his seat, sipping wine and watching silently while Aedan and Anders packed away a second large helping of everything, stoking their Grey Warden appetite.

"I can see several problems with allowing you to return," Aedan finally said, then refilled his wine glass before leaning back in his seat, pale eyes gazing thoughtfully at Anders. "Not least of which will be the inevitable problems if the Chantry discovers your location – which they undoubtedly will, at some point – and demand you be turned over to them for punishment. While I am a devout Andrastrian, I do not equate a belief in Andraste and the Chant with blindly following the wishes of the chantry, especially when the chantry is based in the realm of a long-time enemy of ours, and has on several occasions worked more hand-in-glove with the secular powers of Orlais than is politic. Yet I would be hesitant to foster a split between the chantry and Ferelden."

Aedan frowned briefly, then continued. "On the other hand, your return here could be of use in making the point that a Grey Warden is responsible only to his or her commander, not to outside forces. As a Grey Warden – _my_ Grey Warden – your punishment is up to _me_, just as the punishment of a templar would be up to his Knight-Captain or Knight-Commander. Likewise, the punishment of a soldier of Ferelden would pass up to his Captain and if necessary upward along the chain of command within Ferelden, not surrendering him or her to some outside power for reprimand."

Anders felt his heart sink a little at all this talk of punishment; he knew many would feel it was what he deserved for his actions in Kirkwall, and... he couldn't deny it. He'd _wanted_ Hawke to kill him afterwards, to put an end to his life; it was the punishment he'd felt would be due, for the people who would die when he brought down the chantry. And yet Hawke had refused, sending him away instead. She'd never explained why, and he'd never been able to bring himself to ask, not when it happened, not when they'd first re-encountered each other after Kirkwall, and not between their recent recoveries and his departure from Starkhaven. Part of him didn't _want_ to know. Perhaps some day, if that ever changed, he might write her and ask... but right now, he had other things to worry about. Such as Aedan's decision.

The Warden-Commander had risen and was pacing again; never a good sign. "There _will_ have to be some form of punishment," Aedan said sternly. "And more than just a token slap on the wrist. I will have to give some thought as to what is appropriate; in the meantime, you will remain confined to quarters, though you may continue to stay with your friends rather than being isolated in a room of your own," he said, and then he stopped pacing and looked at Anders, his expression softening just slightly. "I recall you don't do well on your own."

Anders nodded, looking down at his shaking hands and blinking back tears. He hadn't been sure Aedan _would _take him back; and even if it came at the cost of punishment, he was glad that Aedan had; that he had not been turned away, or worse, been turned over to the Chantry or to Fereldan civil authorities.

"It's going to be rough for you for a while," Aedan said, his voice surprisingly gentle now. He stepped closer, and reached down to grasp Anders' wrist, pulling him to his feet and then cupping his hands to either side of Anders' head, forcing the mage to look up and meet his eyes. "Stick it out; what is mine I hold on to, and I will not give you up, now that you have returned," he said. Then for just a brief moment he smiled warmly at Anders, a warm and welcoming smile, the way he'd used to smile at Anders in the past when pleased with some bit of offensive magic or tricky bit of healing the mage had accomplished. "Welcome home, Anders," Aedan said, then hugged him tightly.


	39. Chapter 39

Fenris sat by and watched a little uncomfortably as Anders leaned against Aedan for a long moment, face buried against the larger man's shoulder. He couldn't see Aedan's face from the angle he was sitting at, but he was certain from the way Aedan was holding Anders that whatever expression was on it was likely an affectionate one. Finally Anders lifted his head, pushing Aedan away. "Nuf. 'Ehahna 'ill geh maah ah meh."

Aedan laughed for a moment, apparently having deciphered that without difficulty. "Velanna is already mad enough with _me_ that I doubt she'll have any to spare for you." And then, when Anders gave him an enquiring look, he sighed. "She's left me. For good this time, I think – she's had enough of shemlen, she said, and then she went off almost a year ago to search for a clan willing to take her in. Left Ferelden entirely, by what little I've been able to find out since; she went south to the Brecilian forest at first, and then later took ship from Gwaren. At first I hoped that meant she was coming back to Amaranthine by sea, but... when I looked into it further, it turned out the ship was headed up north, to Antiva and Rivain. I don't think she's coming back this time."

Anders nodded, and touched Aedan's arm briefly. Aedan shrugged, "I've been expecting it for some time; she's never been happy here."

Anders nodded, then stepped back, glancing briefly at Fenris as if only just realizing that he was still there.

"We'll talk more another time," Aedan said. "Right now I've got work to get back to."

Anders nodded. Fenris rose to his feet, and followed the mage out and back to their rooms.

"How did it go?" Feynriel asked, rising to his feet the moment they entered the sitting room and looking Anders over anxiously.

Anders shrugged, then looked at Fenris.

"It seemed to go reasonably well," Fenris said. "Aedan has provisionally accepted Anders back, though he's still confined to these rooms for now. The Warden-Commander has also spoken of the need to administer some form of punishment, though it wasn't clear if he meant just for Anders' desertion, or also for his actions in Kirkwall."

They both looked at Anders. Anders shrugged, looking unhappy; clearly he wasn't entirely sure either. The mage turned and walked away, going into the room he and Feynriel shared and quietly closing the door behind him. Fenris looked to Feynriel.

"I'll give him some time alone first, and then see if he'd like company," the younger mage said quietly.

Fenris nodded.

* * *

The page, Arann, showed up at their door early that evening, with a folded and sealed note for Anders. "He'll want your answer tomorrow," Arann said as Anders accepted the letter from his hand. "After the midday meal."

Anders nodded, and waited until the boy had gone before breaking the seal and unfolding the sheet of paper. He read it over, face expressionless, then refolded it. He stood staring off at nothing for a while, face blank, his mouth set in a thin line.

"Anders?" Fenris said softly.

The mage shivered, then stepped over to the fireplace and dropped the note into the fire, a grim expression now on his face.

"Anders?" Feynriel rose hastily to his feet, looking worried.

The older mage shook his head, then retired to their bedroom again as he had the previous day; quietly, without fuss, but clearly not wanting company at the moment. Fenris and Feynriel exchanged an uneasy look, then, having nothing better to do, sat down again. They tried to resume the conversation they'd been having – about Vigil's Keep, and what a pleasant place it seemed to be based on what little they'd seen of it and its inhabitants so far – but their talk stalled frequently, both of them pausing whenever there was even the slightest sound from behind the door.

Finally Fenris rose, frowning. "I'm going for a walk, and then to bed," he told Feynriel. "Would you like to come along?"

Feynriel shook his head. "I think I'll stay here and read for a while. Or write."

Fenris nodded acceptance, then left. He paused briefly in the hallway outside their room, then turned an made his way to an upwards-leading staircase, wondering if he could find his way back to the rooftop garden on his own. He managed to get lost once, taking a left when he should have gone straight on a little further before turning, but eventually found his way to the spiral staircase leading up to the tower top. He had walked a few steps forward from the door before he realized that someone else was there, sitting in darkness; Aedan, in the same spot where he'd sat earlier, the tattooed dwarf – Sigrun, he had learned her name was – sitting on the opposite bench. Fenris froze as they both turned to look at him.

"My apologies," he said, dipping a short bow toward the Warden-Commander. "I did not mean to interrupt."

"No apologies needed," Aedan said. "We were just star-gazing. Join us, if you like," he said.

Fenris hesitated, then slowly padded forward, sitting down on the bench near Sigrun. Aedan had already turned his head away, gazing up at the stars glittering overhead. The dwarf turned to study Fenris, her expression openly curious. Since she was staring, he felt free to do so too. The tattoos on her face had a vaguely skull-like appearance; a symbol of the Legion of the Dead, he remembered from some of Varric's stories. He wondered how she'd come to be a Grey Warden here on the surface.

She smiled at him, a surprisingly warm smile, then turned to look at Aedan. "Early patrol for me tomorrow; I'm off to bed," she announced, nodded companionably to Fenris, and left.

Fenris watched her go, then turned his face skywards, studying the stars overhead and trying to pick out any of the handful of constellations he knew. He felt a pang, remembering Marian and Sebastian pointing them out to him, on one of their trips out to the Wounded Coast that has required staying out there overnight. The three of them had sat together on a massive rock with their backs to where Varric was sitting writing in a journal by firelight, the dwarf sitting curled forward with the book held tilted to the light in what must have been an uncomfortable position. Marian had sat between the two of them, pointing out the shapes in the stars to Fenris. Her other hand, he had been certain, was holding Sebastian's. Sebastian had told the story behind each constellation; for some, there was more than one story, more than one name. And often more than one way the stars could be combined into shapes. They'd done much the same on other nights, but that first time was the one he always remembered best; the crackling of the fire, the sound of Varric's pen nib scratching over the surface of the paper, the warmth in Marian and Sebastian's voices. He sighed, missing those long-gone days intensely for a moment.

He glanced over at Aedan only to find that it was now he that was being studied by the warden, not the stars overhead. "This garden is a beautiful spot," Fenris said, a touch nervously, finding the man's silent regard far more unnerving than Sigrun's had been.

Aedan grunted. "It is," he agreed, then glanced around the darkened rooftop. "I had it made for a friend of mine; Velanna. Dalish elf. I thought she'd like it."

"She didn't?"

"Not really. Crazy shemlen idea, putting plants in pots on a roof instead of just letting them grow wherever they wanted to. She found the pond particularly amusing," Aedan answered, glancing at the large stone tub in question, then shrugged. "I like the quiet up here though. So I had the place kept up."

Even after she left him, Fenris assumed he meant, remembering the man's earlier brief conversation with Anders.

Aedan turned his head away, looking up at the stars again. "How is Anders taking my letter?"

Fenris bit his lip. "I'm not sure. Poorly, perhaps – he burnt it, and retreated to his room afterwards."

"Ah," Aedan said, very quietly. "I've given him a choice. Three possible punishments. They are of necessity all rather severe; few will be happy with me for not simply killing him outright for what he's done. But he is a Grey Warden, and a talented healer, and one of _mine_. I will not see him slain just because it is the easier option, or what the chantry expects. Not when he can still be of use to the wardens; healers of his calibre are rare, and the chantry parts with them grudgingly."

Fenris nodded silently. "A choice of punishments? That is... unusual."

Aedan snorted. "Yes. But I do not wish to break him; that has been done to him too many times in his life already. I have asked him to chose which of the three punishments he feels he can best withstand."

"It is cruel to ask him to chose his own punishment," Fenris said softly.

"It could be crueler if I chose the punishment myself," Aedan answered, equally softly. Then rose to his feet, walking to the parapet and looking out over the moonlit landscape. "I have little choice in this; from the moment Anders returned, my only option has been to keep him, and to punish him. He is one of mine, and that means I am responsible for his actions, and responsible for seeing that he pays in some acceptable way for what he has done."

"Even though he is a deserter, and had been absent for years?"

"Yes. Even so."

Fenris considered the man's words in silence. "What choices have you offered him?" he asked after a while.

"That is between he and I, unless he chooses to share," Aedan said, a touch coldly, then sighed. "I know you are worried for your friend; trust that I, too, am worried for Anders. We were good friends once; I have no desire to destroy him."

Fenris bit his lip, but did not protest the use of the word friend; he supposed that was what they were now, since Anders' recovery, a tentative, wary friendship at first perhaps, but solidified by their time together since.

He left, after a while, neither of them having spoken any further, but merely watched the stars in silence.


	40. Chapter 40

Fenris was surprised to find the practise yard already occupied; at this time of the morning he'd usually found it empty, the guards having finished their use of it, and the wardens not usually occupying it until after the midday meal. But there was a warden here now; the Warden-Commander, a shield on one arm and a sword in hand, smashing at a practise dummy as if it had personally offended him. He hesitated, considering retreat, then mentally shrugged and walked forward, watching with interest as the man slammed his shield into the dummy hard enough for the upright to crack, the straw-stuffed top half sagging to one side.

"I believe your opponent can safely be considered dead or at least severely disabled after that blow," Fenris said dryly.

Aedan whirled, a ferocious scowl on his face, then froze momentarily as he saw who had spoken. He snorted, a faint smile lifting one corner of his mouth, then pushed his sweat-soaked hair out of his face with the back of his sword-arm. "I suppose it is," he agreed, then focused on the large sword hanging at Fenris' back, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Here to practise?"

"Yes."

"Spar with me," Aedan said, more order then request, but Fenris didn't protest, merely giving a single nod in agreement and lifting his blade easily out of its hanger, shifting a few feet to one side to where they'd have more room to move. Aedan followed, rolling his head and shoulders and giving his arms a shake to loosen them up, then took up a waiting stance. Fenris took a stance as well, both men standing still and silent as they studied each other, Aedan's eyes narrowing further.

They both held their positions for a few seconds, and then exploded into motion. To an observer, it might have seemed that they moved at the same time, but Fenris knew he had moved in reaction to a tensing of Aedan's muscles as the man began a move of his own. They fought furiously for several minutes, Aedan turning aside Fenris' rain of blows with his shield, attempting to jab at him with his own much smaller sword. The greatsword gave Fenris an advantage in range, but even made of as light a material as it was, it took _time_ to move it though the arcs it was capable of it; it was hard to turn its motion from one direction to another. Aedan, hunkered down behind the protection of his shield as much as he could, was able to attack more frequently with his own more mobile weapon, though it meant having to dart in closer and thrust at Fenris between strokes. He grunted whenever Fenris' sword managed a particularly hard impact against his shield, the expression on his face becoming a fierce grin of enjoyment as their battle stretched on.

They were, Fenris thought for a while, surprisingly evenly matched. But he had forgotten the greater stamina and strength of the wardens; he began to flag long before Aedan did, the effort of moving his sword wearing on him more quickly than the warden's efforts did. Aedan's grin became even fiercer as Fenris tired, his pale eyes lighting as the man suddenly launched a series of attacks against the elf that drove him backwards, skipping out of range of repeated jabs with the sword. A sudden blow with the shield caught his sword just right to jar it to the side, then a second blow – hard enough to bruise – sent him stumbling backwards into a wall, his sword falling to the ground. For a moment he was pinned there by the larger man, pushed back against the stones. He felt almost preternaturally aware of the press of hard armour against his own more lightly-armoured form, of the heave of Aedan's chest as the man breathed in deep gasping breaths, having tired himself in that last ferocious attack; of the smell of him, all sharp-scented armour polish and sour sweat-soaked gambeson and male musk.

"You'd be the one dead now," Aedan said softly, looking down at him.

Fenris said nothing, just met his gaze and lifted one eyebrow slightly, then activated his brands just enough for a faint shimmer of light to pass over his flesh. Aedan grunted in surprise, and stepped back, startled. And then slowly grinned. "Or perhaps not," he said, and cocked his head to one side. "Are you _sure_ you have no interest in becoming a Grey Warden?" he asked in a wheedling tone of voice.

Fenris found himself smiling in response. "None at all, thank you."

"Pity."

Fenris smirked slightly, then turned away to retrieve his sword from where it lay on the ground nearby, carefully inspecting the edge for damage. "So why are you so angry this morning, might I ask?"

Aedan snorted, a troubled frown crossing his face. "Anders' choice of punishment," he said abruptly.

Fenris looked at him enquiringly. "Which is? He hasn't spoken to _us_ about it."

"Ah. I take it you haven't been in the forecourt this morning then," Aedan said darkly.

Fenris shook his head, then returned his sword to its hanger on his back and crossed the practise yard to the gate that led out to the cobbled courtyard in front of the keep entrance. He froze, once he saw the addition to it, in the open area between the smithy and the gates, not far from an old stone statue of Andraste; a post, set in the ground. A tall post, with a ring at its upper end, a set of manacles hanging from it. He could feel the blood draining from his face as recognition set in; he knew what such a post was used for.

"You're going to flog him?" he said, his voice sounding strange even to himself.

"Yes," Aedan said, his own voice as strained, then slammed his fist against the stone archway. "_Blight it_. Yes. Tomorrow morning. At his choice," he added bitterly. "I hadn't actually expected him to chose that particular option," he added quietly.

They stood in silence for a long moment, each staring at the post, lost in their own thoughts.

"Another round," Fenris said grimly, turning his back on the post and stalking back to the middle of the practise yard, unlimbering his sword again.

Aedan didn't argue, simply slipped his shield back onto his arm, drew his own sword, and went to take up position again.

* * *

Feynriel watched Anders with concern as the man picked at his dinner. He'd been worried ever since Fenris had taken him aside and told him what punishment Anders was facing. He'd seen Anders' back; he knew what a personal nightmare such a thing must be. But the older mage refused to talk about it, when he'd tried to question him; had merely shaken his head, lips pressed tight together, not attempting speech nor willing to write out the _why_ of it. Feynriel couldn't understand; he could only worry.

Anders glanced up, and caught his worried look. An unhappy look crossed the mage's face, and he reached out to touch Feynriel's shoulder lightly, as if comforting _him_, then sighed and dropped his gaze, and forced himself to eat a few spoonfuls of his dinner. Feynriel found his own appetite gone, watching him.

When they returned to their rooms, the mage didn't lock himself away in the bedroom again; instead he sat in a chair near the fire, and spent the evening sitting there staring into the flames, not talking at all. Fenris and Feynriel remained silent, the warrior sharpening his sword, the mage trying to read a book but finding himself reading and rereading the same paragraph over and over again, unable to concentrate at all. Finally he closed and put aside the book, and just sat watching Anders, studying his face.

He looked so calm. How could he be so calm, knowing what he faced in the morning? Feynriel certainly didn't feel calm, and judging by the stiff and overly careful way Fenris was moving, he wasn't feeling calm either, though he was doing a pretty good job of pretending to be. But having helped heal the startling array of bruises the elf had come back with from the practise yard earlier that day, Feynriel could guess that he'd been anything but calm on first hearing the news.

Fenris finally put away his whetstone, oil and polishing rags, then rose to his feet and headed for his own room. He touched Feynriel's shoulder in passing, a brief squeeze, nothing more, and closed the door behind him, having said not a word for most of the day. Feynriel remained where he was, watching Anders until some time later – at least an hour, possibly closer to two – the older mage finally sighed and sat up and turned to look at him.

Feynriel rose then, and walked over, dropping to kneel beside his chair. "Why?" he asked quietly, looking up into Anders' face. The mage just shook his head slightly, one crippled hand reaching to touch Feynriel's head, smoothing his hair back from his face. Feynriel bit his lip, wanting to cry, and then Anders smiled. Such a gentle, caring smile... he did cry then.

Anders hugged him, a warmly reassuring hug, and kissed his temple, then rose and pulled Feynriel to his feet, shepherding him toward their bedroom. It felt wrong, that it was Anders comforting him as they changed for bed and curled up together, and yet... it felt right, too. Anders didn't seem to need or want any comforting; but it seemed to ease him, to comfort Feynriel. Anders touched him very gently that night, as if handling something precious and fragile, and then curled around him, warm and protective.

Feynriel looked for him in dreams that night, hoping that there he might be able to get some real explanation from Anders; but for once, he couldn't find him.

* * *

Anders lay awake, arms wrapped around the younger mage, watching the slightly lighter patch on one wall that was the window. It had begun to lighten further finally, as dawn approached.

He supposed he should have been frightened. He would have been, not all that many years before; he would have been terrified at the idea of facing a whipping. Yet he had lain awake all night, remembering past whippings, and only feeling a mere ghost of the old fear and anger that they once had raised. So many other things had happened to him in the years since leaving Kinloch Hold; some of them so much worse.

He didn't think he could explain it to his friends though; why he had chosen that particular punishment, out of the several offered. An old, old fear now; one that would once have reduced him to a trembling, crying wreck. Not the worst fear, of course; not even close to the worst one. _That_ had been being made Tranquil, a fate he'd been forced to face, not just a single time but through multiple attempts of the Rites. It had nearly destroyed him, and yet... he'd survived. Had been healed, in the end. And all lesser fears, compared to that shattering terror, compared to the pain of what the templars had done to him in their own fear, compared to those lost years afterwards, faded into insignificance.

So he had chosen the punishment that he would have once feared the worse, out of all of them. Because for this punishment to mean _anything_, it did have to be one he'd dread. And yet... he felt surprisingly calm, even knowing what faced him once the sun rose.

It was, he decided, like facing surgery; when a limb was so damaged and infected that there was nothing he could do to heal it save cut off the worst bits and heal what remained. Horrific, when it was being done, and then afterwards... afterwards you healed. And you went on, maybe missing a foot or a hand or half a leg, but _you went on_. He had to be punished – publicly – for what he had done in Kirkwall. And Aedan was right; it couldn't be some token punishment. He'd killed people; he'd _known_ he would kill people, and that not all of them were deserving of death, and even those deserving of death weren't likely deserving of that particular death, and he'd gone ahead and done it – killed them – anyway. It was a guilt he'd accepted, at the time. He had expected to die afterwards. To be killed, his life taken in payment for what he'd done. And instead... he'd been spared. He'd _lived_, even if years of that living had been an animal-like bare existence.

Hawke had not killed him. Sebastian had spared and healed him. Aedan would not kill him. Nor would Aedan give him up to those who would, now that he'd accepted Anders' return. And so... the worst punishment, because _it had to mean something_. Not to other people, but to him. Something he owed _himself_, since it was something he could never pay back to those whose lives he'd ended.

He sighed, tightening his arms just slightly around Feynriel, breathing in the comforting scent of his skin. He would, he was sure, spend the rest of his life – however long or short a time that might be – trying to make up for what he'd done. Part of him still felt it had been the right thing to do at the time; that it had at least forced people to confront the issue of mages and their lack of freedom, when before the mages had been so easily forgotten, mostly immured in the towers as they were. Part of him doubted the effectiveness of what he'd done; so far the aftereffects of his action had largely been negative. There'd been an increased crack down on apostates, and at least one circle annulled, by what he'd been able to learn since his recovery, over what would have been considered a relatively trivial matter before his actions. Worst of all... nothing. He had done something that at the time he'd thought would shake the world, crack the shell of respectability the chantry used to cloak their treatment of mages like a rotten egg. He'd expected a big splash; he'd caused little more than ripples. And at what cost; what cost in lives, what cost to the mages and the mundane citizens of Kirkwall, what cost to himself. What cost to those on either side whose lives had been blown out not because of anything they had done, but because of what _he_ had done.

The window was a rectangle of bright grey now; it would start to acquire colour soon. He sighed, tightening his arms around Feynriel, waking the younger mage with a hug and accepting a sleepy kiss, before Feynriel woke enough to remember what was due to happen shortly.

He bathed, as much as he could with a bowl full or water and a damp cloth, and shaved, and allowed Feynriel to comb out and tie back his hair for him. For clothing he put on a pair of loose baggy pants and equally loose shirt, both crudely sewn together out of thin cheap cloth, which Aedan had supplied; they were only meant to be worn once.

When the three of them went downstairs, it was not to breakfast; it was out to the forecourt instead, where a small crowd was already gathering, witnesses to his punishment. A cluster of wardens, a handful of guards, both on and off duty, some of the servants. To one side was the small group of official witnesses that Aedan had gathered; the Revered Mother from Amaranthine, a couple of his banns, a representative of the Ferelden crown come from Denerim, Aedan having sent a fast courier off even before offering Anders his choice of punishments.

He left Fenris and Feynriel standing near the smithy, continuing on to the post under his own power. A pair of guards stood waiting; one fastened his wrists into the hanging manacles, while the other efficiently cut off the clothing he was wearing. They fit a folded piece of leather into his mouth, giving him something to bite down on, and then withdrew, leaving him standing bare-arsed facing the pole. He stared at the wood, not looking around, not wanting to see those who were looking at him now, stripped of all protection, every scar and flaw on display. The morning air was cool; he could feel it raising gooseflesh as he stood there. He hoped it wouldn't make him shiver; he didn't want people to think he was afraid. Or at least, not that afraid.

He heard Aedan's voice, reading out the list of what crimes he was being punished for; desertion, at the top of it, and a list of deaths he'd caused. It took less time than he'd expected, to read it all out. He heard the scuff of feet against cobblestone, and knew without looking around that it was Aedan himself who was going to carry out the punishment. He was unsurprised; the Warden-Commander would have considered it his responsibility to see that it was done right.

He knew how many blows to expect.

He'd argued the number with Aedan. The Warden-Commander had been willing to give him fewer lashes, but he'd insisted; two for every death. Five for his desertion. Ten for the Grand-Cleric and the chantry itself. The total a number he didn't like to consider too closely.

There was a hush now, everyone fallen silent. He heard Aedan's sharp inhale, and then the first blow landed. Not a light one, never that; Aedan would not scant the force of his blows, but neither would he seek to damage Anders unnecessarily. It was going to hurt, before the end, but it wouldn't kill him.

He counted the strokes, as Aedan worked his way down one side of Anders' back, leaving a line of evenly spaced weals as he worked, a slow build of pain, like the pain of sunscorched flesh, getting worse as it progressed. A brief pause while Aedan moved, and then he worked his way down the other side. The pain built, from a slow burn to a steady fire, as the lines of weals criss-crossed down his back. There was moisture trickling down now, from the places where the crossing of the weals or a few misjudged blows had opened his skin. Moisture on his face too, though no one could see that, his face hidden by his lifted arms and the pole in front of him as he cried, starting with silent tears and all too soon becoming harsh sobs of pain, teeth cutting into the surface of the fold of leather as he kept himself from crying out as Aedan began another pair of passes down his back, the lash striking flesh that was already well-marked and sensitive.

The pain was enough now to make him jerk and cry out as each stroke landed. It was with an effort of will that he kept up the count. Well past halfway now; two-thirds. Three-quarters. The pain didn't matter. His cries and sobs of pain didn't matter. Shame did not matter. There was no anger, as he'd felt with previous beatings. No hatred; he'd asked for this. He'd _chosen_ this. It was punishment. It was necessary pain. It was surgery. There was just him, and the burn of each stroke, the pain, the count. Almost done. Almost over. So few strokes left.

And then done.

He heard Aedan's voice, roughly ordering people to go back to their duties, saying something slightly more formal to the official witnesses. Heard hurrying footsteps and knew it was Fenris and Feynriel, the elf cursing under his breath as they released him from the manacles and lowered him to kneel on the ground, Fenris holding him upright without touching the raw mess that was his back, Feynriel not saying anything at all but hissing through his teeth as he examined the state of it.

"Mm 'ahrii," Anders forced out. "Szz 'ahrii."

"It's not all right," Fenris snapped out. Feynriel made an odd hiccoughing sound, touching gentle fingertips to Anders' torn skin, but even that enough to make Anders hiss in pain and arch away from the touch.

More footsteps, then Aedan's voice. "Don't heal him yet, Feynriel," Aedan ordered, voice low and hard.

"_Why!_"

"If you do they'll know you're a mage. Take him upstairs; wash his back. I'll send a servant with salve and bandages. You can heal him once the witnesses have all left later. It won't kill him."

Feynriel muttered something Anders didn't understand; some oath he'd learned in Tevinter, Anders guessed, when whatever it was he'd said startled a brief sound of bitter amusement out of Fenris. "Aedan's right," Fenris said quietly. "Come... help me get him upstairs."

They couldn't carry him, but Feynriel tore off his own shirt to wrap around Anders' hips and hide his nakedness, and they got his arms over both their shoulders and helped him indoors, doing their best to avoid touching his back. He felt detached from himself, like an observer, not a participant, as they made their slow way up to their rooms. Servants were already waiting with warmed water and clean rags, and the promised salve and bandages; they carried it in, and left again at Fenris' orders.

The two helped him to lie down face-first on the bed, and then cleaned his back, sponging the trickles of blood away with warm water, then Feynriel gently spread the salve over the weals, and they lay strips of cloth back and forth over top to protect it. The salve stung at first, and then numbed.

As the pain receded, Anders sighed once in relief, and then finally slept.


	41. Chapter 41

It disturbed Feynriel that Anders, once he woke late that afternoon, would not let him heal his back. Fenris took the mage's refusal much more calmly; he understood, he thought, why the mage might do so. "It is a penance," he quietly explained to Feynriel. "Healing it would lessen his punishment, and he wishes punishment; _this_ punishment. He has accepted it."

Feynriel looked uncertain, as if he still wished to protest.

"It is his choice," Fenris told him firmly. "And it will not kill him. Nor, with care, will it mark him, and I doubt he will refuse your care in helping to keep the cuts clean, and preventing any infection of them. As long as he can trust you not to do _more_ than that, anyway. Otherwise he'll have to rely on me for such help, and I do not have the same range of skills available to help him as you do."

Feynriel, in the end, gave in, and agreed not to do anything more than was necessary to allow the marks of the lash to heal well on their own. Anders was clearly relieved; and gave Fenris a thankful smile .

The mage was too tired and sore that evening to rise from his bed, but the next morning he was up early, insisting on having salve and bandages changed, and a loose enough shirt found that he could go down to breakfast with them. Feynriel watched Anders anxiously as they walked down the stairs to the mess hall; Fenris simply trusted that the man knew his own limits, and walked close enough to catch him if he stumbled, but otherwise ignored his injured state.

It was different in the mess hall when they dined; with his punishment delivered, Anders' status had clearly changed. Several of the wardens, who had previously kept their distance, now made a point of stopping by Anders' table, speaking to him briefly with warm and welcoming smiles, clearly pleased to see him back. A few even hugged him – very carefully, given the state of his back – which brought a suspicious brightness to the man's eyes.

Aedan stopped by their table as they were finishing eating. "Anders... I'll want to see you in my office once you're done eating. There will still be restrictions on you for some time, and we'll need to discuss that." Anders nodded. Aedan glanced at Fenris and Feynriel. "Bring along one of your friends, if you'd like."

Anders nodded again, then after Aedan had left, turned to Feynriel, taking him by the hand and smiling gently. Feynriel blushed slightly, but nodded; he would be the one to accompany the mage this time.

Fenris, for his part, was just as happy to have the morning to himself; he went to the practise yard again, working his way through solitary forms for a while. Several wardens showed up after a while, and began working out as well. When one invited him to spar, he was pleased to accept, and spent some time with them, letting various wardens try out their skills against his own, with occasional breaks to rest and watch while other pairs sparred.

He became aware after a while of bright blue eyes watching him with barely concealed interest; interest in more than just his abilities in combat, he felt sure. The warden waited until almost all the others had tired and left before finally approaching him and asking if he'd be interested in another spar.

He grinned. "Certainly," he said.

* * *

Muscular arms and even more muscular thighs, a thatch of curly black hair between them. He ran his tongue up the skin of a sweat-beaded belly, smiling at the noise the warden made in response. Fingers carded into his hair as he worked his way lower, tugging almost painfully, heels digging into his back as the body beneath him arched to meet his mouth and tongue.

He felt rather smugly pleased with himself as he sat up some little time later, rinsed out his mouth with the water waiting on the bedside table, then stretched out beside the warden.

"By the Stone but you're good at that," Sigrun said, giving him a very pleased look.

He smiled. "Practise. And I had a good teacher."

"Mmmm. Remind me to thank her, if I ever chance to meet her."

He smiled, considering that it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that Sigrun would, some day, encounter Isabela – the pirate did dock with some regularity in Amaranthine, after all, and the city was less than a day's travel from the Keep. "If it ever happens when I am actually on hand, I'll be sure to do so," he said, gravely.

Sigrun grinned, and then squirmed around, gently pushing on one of his shoulders to urge him onto his back. "My turn to do something for you now," she said.

"For both of us, I think," he agreed, as she moved to straddle him.

That drew a grin from her. "Yes," and then she fell silent for a while, he as well.

She was the one looking quite smugly pleased when they curled up again afterwards. "I'm not the only one interested in you, you know," she told him after a few minutes, suddenly serious.

"I know," he said. "I have become used to it, though there was a time when such interest would have enraged me. But that same friend taught me many things, including to allow myself my own enjoyment of such things."

"Aedan is one of them," she said quietly. "The Warden-Commander."

"I know that too. Or are you saying that his interest should worry me?"

She was silent for a moment, then sighed. "I'm not sure if it should or not. He does know how to take 'no' for an answer, so it's nothing like that to worry about. But he's... _intense_, when he's interested. Some people find it off-putting. I rather like it myself," she said, turning her head to rest her chin on the back of her hand where it rested on his chest, studying his expression. "It reminds me that even though I'm dead, I can still enjoy what time is left to me."

He smiled, and stroked his thumb lightly along the edge of one of the tattoos marked on her face. "Living in the day, Isabela calls that – the woman who was and is my teacher in these matters," he told her seriously.

Sigrun lifted her head slightly at that, looking mildly surprised. "Isabela? I may have heard of her, if you mean the one that's a pirate."

He grinned. "Yes. Her reputation has spread this far, then?"

Sigrun grinned back. "Yes; Aedan slept with her, once. On her ship. During the Blight, in Denerim. He and a couple friends of his. He doesn't talk about it often; a favourite memory of his, but painful, both of the friends having since left him for various reasons."

Fenris laughed. "Isabela does get around," he observed, then frowned. "He seems to lose a lot of friends. Anders and he spoke briefly of someone named Velanna?"

Sigrun wrinkled her nose. "Her. Yes, they were together for quite a few years, on and off. Very passionate, both in bed and when arguing, which they did a lot of. But that seems to be over for good now; I was surprised it lasted as long as it did. We all were," she said, moving to sit straddling his belly. "Aedan was never hesitant to spread his favours around whenever the two of them were on the outs, and Velanna never liked that, even if she sometimes did the same. Very territorial woman," she added, her hands exploring the curls of his brands across his shoulders and chest.

He allowed it, that being one of the many things Isabela had taught him to enjoy rather than hate over the years of their acquaintance; being handled. Being admired, even when it was for parts of him that he'd once disliked. Though _dislike_ was far too mild a word for the emotion he'd once felt in relation to his brands. He reached out to touch the markings on Sigrun's face, then a second one, low on her belly. "What's this one for?" he asked curiously.

She shrugged. "Mark of infertility. These days women are only allowed in the Legion of the Dead if they're infertile, either naturally or otherwise," she explained, and a dark look crossed her face. "It didn't used to be that way; it should have been. Aedan made them change it," she said, and cupped her own hand over the mark for a moment. "We're dead anyway; better that we can't engender life. I'm _glad_ that I'm now infertile," she added fiercely. "All female Wardens should be, not just those here in Ferelden."

There was clearly a story behind her words, but he guessed from her expression that is was a painful one, and likely unsuitable for bed talk. He would ask some other time, he decided. Or perhaps ask Anders if he knew what she referred to. That might be best. Meanwhile her expression had faded back to its previous calm, and her hands had returned to exploring his body, kneading at him in a very pleasant manner.

"So are you interested in Aedan at all?" she asked, sounding half-hopeful.

Fenris laughed. "Why do you ask? Should you not be more concerned over whether or not I'm interested in you?"

She grinned. "Oh, but I already know you're interested in me," she said, and wiggled backward down his torso a little further, rubbing herself against the most obvious indicator of that interest for a moment, and drawing another laugh from him. She shrugged. "He's my commander, and a good friend, and sometimes a lover. I worry about him. If you're not at all interested in him, I can let him down easy, before he embarrasses himself."

Fenris considered her words for a while, then shrugged. "If you're asking whether or not I take men as lovers, I have done so. Not often; there are things in my own past that make it somewhat easier for me to deal with attention from women than from men. But..." He paused, remembering sparring with Aedan the other day, and how conscious he'd been of the man's physical presence, especially the handful of times the other man had pinned him against a wall or the ground in the course of their sparring, or when he had done the same in turn. "He is not unattractive to me," he admitted.

She smiled. "Not unattractive. Does that mean he's not quite attractive?"

Fenris laughed softly. "He _is_ attractive. Though I don't think you needed to warn me that he can be... intense. I've seen that already, in his dealings with Anders, and the few times I've sparred with him. It is part of what makes him attractive, actually. Wondering what it would be like, having that intensity focused on me. And a little frightening, too, I suppose. I have learned to enjoy sex, but passion... passion is not something I have yet learned." He wasn't sure if his words made much sense, to anyone but him, but Sigrun nodded understandingly.

"Enough speaking of him. It is _you_ whose bed I currently occupy," he pointed out.

She grinned, and they once again stopped speaking for some time. And after that, they slept.


	42. Chapter 42

As courtships went, it was a rather unusual one. There was no declaration of intent between them, other than certain looks exchanged. No gifts given from one to the other. But there was time spent together, at least once each day. Sometimes it would be just a word of two exchanged as they passed in the hallway or mess hall; sometimes a longer conversation in Aedan's office, or the mess hall, up in the roof garden, or down in the practise yard while watching others spar. Aedan seemed to have an insatiable interest about Fenris' experiences in the north; his time in Tevinter, or among the fog-warriors of Seheron; the years in Kirkwall as Hawke's companion; his time afterwards, spent helping Sebastian to reclaim Starkhaven. Recovering Marian and Anders, in all its ugliness, and the years since. An interest in his powers as well, from his ability to phase through objects and people to his more recent ability to summon wisps.

Fenris learned more of Aedan too; listened, as Aedan himself or some one of the wardens told stories of Aedan's history, his family, their fate. The Blight Year, and what Aedan and Alistair had done to rally the kingdom and, in the end, defeat the Archdemon. Learned too of the man's appetites, which were prodigious; like many of the wardens he believed in taking his pleasures as and when he could. Velanna was the only lover he'd ever curbed his appetites for, and that because she'd disliked him straying. Though whenever they were on the outs, which had apparently happened with some regularity, he'd enjoyed himself among his wardens until she took him back again. Until the time came when she _didn't_ take him back, and left instead.

There was time spent sparring together in the practise yard, testing their strength against each other. They were well-matched there; sometimes one of them would win their bout, sometimes the other. The wardens thought well of Fenris' prowess, having seen him defeat their commander without their own advantages of strength, speed and stamina. But he had his own advantages, though only rarely did he need to make use of the powers his brands gave him to turn a fight to his benefit. Best of all was the times when it was just them in the yard, no witnesses. Things changed then, the fights becoming flirtations, and when one of them would succeed in pinning the other they'd pause for just a moment, exchanging speaking looks before resuming the struggle.

They had the same goal, Fenris knew, and yet they circled around it, only sometimes warily approaching it. In that way some weeks of time passed, Fenris finding himself feeling more and more at home among the wardens.

* * *

Fenris felt good, if more than a little sore. He'd taken on three wardens at once in a small melee in the practise yard, and managed to hold them all off, though it had left him bruised and sore from the effort and the buffets he'd had to take when unable to turn aside the practise blades they'd been using. He hissed in pain as he peeled out of his leathers, probing gingerly with his fingers at a large, darkening bruise over his ribs, one gained when he'd taken a hit himself to land a hit on someone else, the blow proving rather stronger than he's expected, the warden who'd landed it having expected him to dodge it and not, therefore, having made any effort to either withhold his full strength or pull the blow.

"Are your ribs broken?" a familiar voice asked.

He glanced over his shoulder and smiled at Aedan. "No. Merely rather bruised," he said, then moved to one side and stepped down into one of the large sunken tubs that dotted the room, one hot enough to have wisps of steam rising from its surface. He hissed again as he lowered himself into the waters. "Join me," he invited.

Aedan said nothing, but after only a brief pause he heard the other man undressing, and then the large man was stepping down into the tub and taking a seat facing him. They sat in silence at first, studying each other.

He'd had glimpses of the other man before, of course; arms bared by a sleeveless jerkin, a flash of pale untanned belly when the man stretched. He knew the width of his shoulders already, the surprising narrowness of his hips, legs that were well-muscled, but lean. He was, in the way of many human men, rather on the hairy side; a long tuft of black hairs beneath each arm, a mat of curly hairs covering chest and shoulders, thinning down arms and legs. A thicker line, trailing down from matted chest to black-furred groin, his sex well-shaped and bobbing just slightly in the warm waters, betraying Aedan's interest. An interest Fenris returned.

Fenris let his gaze lift back upwards, studying the planes of Aedan's face, his close-shaven chin set and lips thinned as Aedan studied him in turn. Those intense, pale blue eyes, so startling against the tanned skin of his face and his jet black hair.

"Anders seems to be adjusting well to living here again," Aedan suddenly said.

"He does. I know he's pleased that you've given consent for him to open a clinic here; he's always seemed happiest when healing others."

Aedan grunted, and frowned. "I'm glad he's at least content; this place will have to be a prison for him for some years to come."

"Must it be?" Fenris asked, surprised. "Was not his punishment enough?"

Aedan grimaced. "I might consider it so; but the Chantry demands more, and it would be unwise of me to let him beyond these walls where they might attempt to snatch him away in order to exact their own far harsher punishment on him. I cannot waste the number of wardens it would take to be sure he is well-protected outside the Keep; so I have made a virtue of necessity and told him that he is confined to within our walls for the foreseeable future. Perhaps in a few years the chantry will have turned their attention elsewhere and he can go out occasionally, though I think even then it would not be wise to send him out on patrols; the chantry has a long memory. But he can serve here, healing the wardens and anyone else who makes their way here seeking aid."

Fenris nodded, finding he agreed with Aedan's judgement of the situation. Strange to think of Anders cooped up within the Keep for what might be several years time, especially as much as the mage had hated being contained in the past. And yet... he did not think Anders would actually want to escape. He had _chosen_ to return here. Perhaps the biggest difference between a jail and a refuge was who controlled the door of it, and Anders clearly trusted Aedan.

"I hope Feynriel will remain as well," Aedan said. "He and Anders are clearly close, and it will keep Anders happier to have him on hand. And I am intrigued by the mage's powers; especially this one he has of restoring the Tranquil to themselves. Though I am not sure if such a thing would be counted as a gift or a curse."

"I suspect it will depend very much on the Tranquil themselves," Fenris said. "I know there are some who chose to have themselves made such; terrified of their own powers. I think it would be no kindness to restore such a person. But Hawke had what was likely the wisest suggestion; to let each Tranquil decide for themselves whether or not this is a thing they wish done."

Aedan grunted again, brow wrinkling in thought. "One problem will be how to actually _use_ this ability, if he does. As much as I and Alistair have done to increase the freedom of mages here in Ferelden, as thanks for their help in ending the blight, and in cleaning the blight-tainted areas of our country since, the chantry is rather unwilling to co-operate with either of us. And if they were aware of the skill your friend has learned, I am certain they would be even more interested in his death, by whatever means possible, than they wish Anders dead. If Feynriel does make further use of that particular capability, it will have to be very discreetly done." His eyes lifted to meet Fenris', gaze intense. "I am sure you have thoughts of your own on the subject of mages and mage freedom, given your time in Tevinter."

Fenris grimaced. "Yes. There was a time I hated all mages indiscriminately. I have come to accept that mages, like all men, are a mix of the bad and the good. But where a bad man might kills dozens, even hundreds over time, a bad mage can do the same in a frighteningly short time; and gain _power _from the act, which is even worse, as it presents a great temptation to those with no morals save what is best for themselves."

"Which is why the chantry insists on the control of all mages," Aedan said.

Fenris nodded. "And yet that punishes the good for the potential crimes of the bad, and increases the chance that they themselves, out of desperation or hatred or for some other reason, might turn to the bad as well. Especially when their jailors prove to be evil and cruel, as I saw happen in Kirkwall; even without Anders' actions there, the place was a tinderbox, waiting only a spark to explode in violence." He sighed. "There are no easy answers. I have come to believe that Anders was correct in his insistence that the system is wrong, and that it must change, but as to what such change could be, or how to bring it about?" He paused for a moment, and shrugged, then looked questioningly at Aedan. "How do the Grey Wardens deal with the problem of mages within their own ranks?"

Aedan grinned briefly. "We keep them too busy to worry about anything else," he said, then sighed. "In truth, in most countries the chantry limits the wardens to only having one mage warden at a time, and problems with them are rare to non-existent, as far as I've been able to learn. Only here in Ferelden have we managed to force the chantry to break that rule; apart from Anders and his guest, I have three mages here, and another at our compound in Denerim, and am trying to squeeze another pair of them out of the Circle for a new establishment that we've begun in the south, among the ruins of Ostagar. Many of the remaining darkspawn in the Deep Roads hereabouts seem attracted to there, I suppose sensing some lingering imprint of the Archdemon, and it's better if we keep a small force of wardens on hand to deal with them as they emerge, than to wait until they begin causing problems elsewhere. King Alistair has also established a garrison at Ostagar, to watch over the pass, and at my brother's urgings has opened trade with the Chasind peoples as well."

Aedan frowned. "I have had no problems with the mages in our ranks, apart from when Anders fled, and that was instigated by the chantry while I was absent, so I blame them for what happened. Now that he is back I intend to protect him, as I protect all my wardens, many of whom have unsavoury histories from before having joined our ranks. Despite what the stories might claim, wardens are not noble heroes; we're mostly cut-throats, poachers, pick-pockets, forgers and thieves, even murderers. We do not fight honourably in battle; we fight to _win_. By any means necessary, because if we fail, so do all the noble knights in their shiny armour; the lords in their manors and castles, the peasants in their hovels, the elves in their forests and alienages. _Honour_ is something Grey Wardens cannot afford. There is only _duty_, until we die or are killed."

Fenris nodded. He'd heard like words from several of his friends among the wardens; had heard from them too the words of their joining ritual, that spoke of a duty that could not be foresworn. And wondered, sometimes, if it was that duty that had, in the end, drawn Anders back here, as much as any desire for penance or sanctuary.

"Are you sure you've no interest in becoming a warden?" Aedan asked once again, eyes warm with amusement.

Fenris laughed, and rose to his feet. "No. As interesting as I am finding my time here, I have itchy feet, and no wish to be tied down to any one place."

Aedan smiled crookedly, and rose as well, the water sheeting off of him. "You remind me of another elf I know," he said glumly.

"Zevran?" Fenris asked, and was rewarded by a surprised look from Aedan. "I met him once. And I know Isabela quite well, so I'd heard much of him long before one of your wardens chanced to mention his name," he explained as he picked up a towel and began wiping himself down, wincing as the motion caused his bruised side to twinge. The hot soak had helped considerably with the pain, but it was still a rather large and ugly bruise.

Aedan noticed his wince, and looked at Fenris' bruised side, frowning. "You need something on that, I think. Allow me?"

Fenris nodded, and wrapped the towel around his waist. Aedan had snatched up a towel as well, and did likewise as he walked over to open a cabinet along one wall, one kept well-stocked with bandages and poultices for the treatment of minor injuries; things that would require re-application after bathing. He selected a squat ceramic jar and worked out the cork. The jar was half-filled of a yellowish greasy substance, flecked with bits of green and brown – herbs of some kind.

"Over here," he said, gesturing to a nearby shelf, and set the jar down after scooping some out on his fingertips. Fenris walked over, and turned partially away, lifting his arm so that Aedan could begin smearing the salve on his skin. It had a strong sharp odour, like mint, but not, and felt cool against his bath-heated skin. He was very aware of the touch of Aedan's fingers; business-like at first, but as the salve began to take effect, numbing the bruise, slowly to more of a stroking movement. He heard, too, Aedan's breathing change pace; deeper, slower breaths, with a slight hitch at times. He bent his head, eyes half-lidding in enjoyment of the touch, and was not surprised when after a while Aedan's other hand rose to cup around the other side of his waist, warm and firm, nor when the man bent close and nosed at the nape of his neck, then kissed him there.

"I should warn you," Aedan said huskily.

"About what?" Fenris asked, turning to face him, looking up into those pale eyes, a touch darker now with pupils widely blown.

"I am... a difficult man sometimes. Moody. Hard to get along with."

Fenris laughed softly. "You sound like you are describing myself," he told Aedan, then reached up and cupped his hand around the back of Aedan's head, guiding him down for another kiss, on the lips this time.

Aedan swallowed when they parted. "I sleep around. A lot."

"I did say I know Isabela well, did I not? I learned much from her, including enjoying my pleasures as and when I find them. Surely you haven't missed noticing how many of your wardens I've slept with already?"

It was Aedan who laughed that time, and then ghosted another kiss across Fenris' lips, hands rising to curve around his waist and draw him closer. "_Yes_, I noticed. All right. I tend to be obsessive in my relationships. Especially with elves, for whatever reason."

Fenris shrugged. "As long as you do not try to keep me here when I am ready to move on, I do not mind a little obsession. And given that I know Zevran travels considerably, and that your Velanna has moved on without you attempting to stop her, I am assuming that you do not have the sort of obsession that demands your lovers remain always with you."

Aedan smiled, looking relieved. "No. I don't. Though I swear, elves must be part-cat; there isn't a one of you I've known yet who didn't prefer to come and go as they pleased, and only join me here when _they_ feel like it."

"You don't sound like you mind that," Fenris said.

"I suppose I don't," Aedan agreed, and smiled. "Perhaps because, apart from in the case of Velanna, I've always been sure that they _would_ return sooner or later. And even she might yet surprise me, though... I do not think our relationship will return to what it was, if she does," he said, frowning slightly. "But enough of others; it is _you_ I am here with now. And interested in. Will you stay?" he asked, almost plaintively.

"For now, yes," Fenris agreed. "I am sworn to defend Feynriel for some period of time; we have never yet discussed under what circumstances my debt to him will end. If he leaves I will have to go with him. And even if he stays, sooner or later I will want to leave anyway; there are others I care for that I would wish to visit, in the north."

Aedan chewed his lip for a moment. "And would you return, afterwards...?"

Fenris smiled. "Yes. As long as I have friends here, and am welcome. I like wandering, like seeing what is over the horizon, but I also like having homes I can return to when I wish to rest for a while."

Aedan sighed in relief, and smiled warmly at Fenris. "Then... shall we put an end to all this pussy-footing around each other we've been doing? I have a very large bed in my room that I would be very pleased to share with you, for as long a time as you're willing to occupy it. Or if you'd prefer separate quarters of your own, that too can be arranged..."

Fenris wrinkled his nose. "Easiest to guard Feynriel if I remain close to him; my current room is sufficient for my needs. Though I see no reason not to spend time in your bed occasionally."

Aedan grinned. "Now?" he suggested hopefully.

Fenris laughed. "I suppose," he agreed. "Though with this bruise I'm not going to be up anything particularly energetic."

"I'll provide the energy for today then" Aedan said, giving him a look that smouldered.

Fenris grinned, and fetched his discarded armour before following Aedan out of the room and upstairs. He found himself hoping that Feynriel remained here for some time; he thought it likely, given how close the two mages had become, and especially with Anders being both teacher and lover to the younger mage. Feynriel was helping out in the clinic, and learning more of the healing arts while he did so.

But that was something to worry about later; for now, he would simply enjoy being here, and being alive.


End file.
